


The Curse of Home Farm

by jjscm, MissGeorgieTate



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjscm/pseuds/jjscm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGeorgieTate/pseuds/MissGeorgieTate
Summary: Welcome to Home Farm, 1927, where Lord Francis Tate and his family rule over the servants of the village in a world of secrets, scandal and ultimately murder.





	1. Home Farm

**Author's Note:**

> This story combines the characters of three decades of the village and was inspired by Classic Emmerdale.

_Welcome to Home Farm, 1927, The Family Seat of Lord Francis Tate, Earl of Miffield._  
  
Upstairs:  
-Lord Francis "Frank" Tate, Earl of Miffield (born 1867, age 60)  
-Lady Katherine "Kim" Tate, Countess of Miffield (by marriage) (born 1885, age 42)  
-Lord Christopher “Chris” Tate, the Earl's eldest son, also Lord Wittonlea by courtesy title; also "Crispy" (born 1891, age 36)  
-Lady Zoya "Zoe" Tate, daughter of the Earl of Miffield (born 1897, age 30)  
-Lord Joseph Tate, illegitimate son of Lord Christopher and housemaid Rachel Hughes (born 1908, age 19)  
-Lord James Tate, son of the Earl and Countess of Miffield (born 1909, age 18)  
-Lady Jean "Jeanie" Tate, 'daughter' of the Earl and Countess of Miffield (born 1917, age 10)  
  
Downstairs:  
-Graham Foster, Butler of Home Farm  
-James "Jimmy" King, First Footman/Valet to Lord Francis Tate  
-Brian "Biff" Fowler, Second Footman/Valet to Lord Christopher Tate  
-Ross Barton, Third Footman/Valet to Lord Joseph Tate  
-Aaron Dingle, Valet to Lord James Tate  
-Daniel “Dan” Spencer, Chauffeur  
-Liam Hammond, Groundskeeper  
-Diane Blackstock, also Mrs Blackstock, Missus, Housekeeper of Home Farm  
-Priya Sharma, Lady's Maid to Lady Kim Tate  
-Ella “Effie” Harrison, Lady's Maid to Lady Zoya Tate  
-Nicola King, also "Kinsett", Nursery Maid to Lady Jean Tate  
-Belle Dingle, Parlourmaid  
-Liza Glover, Housemaid  
-Lydia Hart, Housemaid  
-Ceri Spencer, Housemaid  
-Victoria Sugden, Cook  
-Amelia Spencer, Scullery Maid/Kitchen Maid  
  
The Ladies of Emmerdale:  
-Miss Katherine Bates  
-Miss Pearl Ladderbanks  
-Miss Harriet Finch, Local Missionary  
-Miss Margaret Macey  
-Miss Louisa Harding  
-Miss Vanessa Woodfield  
  
The Enemies of Home Farm:  
-The Sugdens  
-The Dingles


	2. Happy Days of Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything Stops for Tea upon 4 o'clock at Home Farm and a family discussion leads to a dangerous liaison...

"Not again," Christopher Tate warned darkly, rolling his eyes at the youngest of the family, a pretty, charming child by the name of Jean, who was winding the gramophone again.  
  
"Happy Days are here again!" she sang in her childish, flighty tones, trying to match the tempo with the sound.  
  
"You keep on believing that," Christopher muttered bitterly, turning back to his newspaper.  
  
"What are you doing, Crispy?" Jean asked, wandering sweetly to the desk where he was seated in his strange wooden contraption. She liked to play with it sometimes when he was occupied.  
  
"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," Christopher sighed, ignoring her.  
  
"Why not?" she drawled, smiling at him.  
  
"Haven't you anything else to do?" Christopher returned impatiently, flapping the newspaper as he folded it over.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"Why don't you find dear Pappy? I'm sure he'll buy you something to keep you occupied. He normally does," Christopher remarked sarcastically.  
  
Jean remained immune to his sarcasm.  
  
"Where's my little champion then?" A friendly deep voice came from behind Jean and she turned, her face lighting up at the sight of ‘Papa’.  
  
"Oh, she's here. Being an annoyance," Chris replied, over his shoulder.  
  
Frank immediately swept Jean up into his arms and swung her around, singing along to the record on the gramophone, which had caught up.  
  
"Dad, do you have to do that in here?" Christopher groaned, "you'll only make her sick. Again."  
  
He referred to the previous afternoon when after taking a rather high tea in the company of ‘Kim’ and some other important ladies of the village, who had remarked on what a ‘darling little cherub’ she was, the aforementioned cherub in question, upon seeing her dearest ‘Papa’ had been spun around only to empty the contents of her luncheon onto the Persian carpet and Miss Bates’s new hat.  
  
"Oh, come now, I think we've learnt our lesson, haven't we, Jeanie?" Frank asked her. Jean squealed in delight.  
  
"I am trying to work in here, you know. Running your business," Chris reminded him agitatedly. "Or, I could be, if you didn't trust that witch of a wife more than me."  
  
"Christopher," Frank warned, setting Jean down on the carpet, "little Champion, why don't you go to the kitchen and see what Liza has in the pantry for you... Papa might have left something there."  
  
Jean, sensing that she was no longer welcome to observe the conversation, graciously took her leave, skipping out of the drawing room and along the hallway in pursuit of the surprise that awaited in the kitchen.  
  
She had just reached the staircase when a woman emerged from the music room, exquisitely dressed, golden hair immaculately styled in the latest fashion. She looked at Jean with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.  
  
Jean simply stared in awe. She was beautiful, so elegant.  
  
"And where are you off to?" she asked in a well modulated yet harsh voice.  
  
"Papa left a surprise for me," Jean explained, twisting her fingers.  
  
"Did he now?" The woman looked over her, "what have you been doing this morning?"  
  
"Listening to the gramophone,” Jean replied.  
  
"I think we've forgotten a little word, haven't we?"  
  
"Mama," Jean corrected herself, despite feeling no real affection for the woman.  
  
"That's better." The woman patted her head with her black silk glove. “And where is Papa now?"  
  
"With Crispy."  
  
The woman smirked.  
  
"But he told me not to call him that," Jean admitted.  
  
"Oh, why?" the woman asked, raising Jean's chin delicately.  
  
"He doesn't like it." Jean shrugged.  
  
"No, we don't shrug our shoulders, do we now?" her 'Mama' reprimanded her sharply.  
  
"No, Mama," Jean answered complacently.  
  
"I think it’s a lovely thing; to give your brother a silly name. Perhaps you can think of one for your sister as well?" She put emphasis on the ‘sister’, however her attempt at irony fell flat in the face of Jean's childish naivety.  
  
"I shall." Jean nodded.  
  
"Good girl. What surprise has Papa got for you, I wonder?" her 'Mama' added pertinently, standing to her full height, towering over Jean. "I think I saw the parcel arrive. A patisserie, no less."  
  
Jean prepared to run, but her 'Mama' took her shoulder. "No, we walk."  
  
Jean nodded.  
  
"Good. Run along, now." She tapped her shoulder sweetly before heading into the study where Frank and Chris were deep in conversation.  
  
"Whatever you may think, Christopher," Frank was saying as his wife entered.  
  
"Oh, sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting." Kim removed her hat and gloves.  
  
"How could you not?" Chris responded acidly.  
  
Kim smirked, linking her arm with Frank's.  
  
"We can talk about this later, son."  
  
"So you can spend the remaining hours of the day with your strumpet," Christopher commented, "and I thought you were only a Lady of the night," he added to Kim.  
  
"Very witty,” she replied, looking up at Frank.  
  
"Christopher, apologise to your stepmother," Frank instructed coldly.  
  
"I think not. I'm not seven years old." Chris turned back to his work as another of the family entered; Christopher's own son, who was the very image of his father.  
  
His parentage had caused something of a scandal, being the son of the Earl of Miffield's heir and a housemaid. She herself had died, tragically, in childbirth, leaving her son to be raised by his father, who felt something of a detachment to the boy.  
  
He was, however, an improvement on Frank's own heir, the young James Tate. At least, Christopher had provided his opinion as such.  
  
A surge of pride filled Christopher as he looked upon his son, now in his late teenage years. The very model of Tate breeding. He had attended a fine school of repute, bringing home with him a footman whom had caught the eye of Kim herself.  
  
"Ah, Joseph," Frank began.  
  
"Good morning, Grandfather, Grandmother." Joseph knew it irked Kim greatly that he refused to address her by her formal title, Lady Tate. Christopher smirked and chuckled to himself in approval.  
  
"How are you doing, my boy?" Frank asked him.  
  
"Very well, thank you, Grandfather."  
  
"Enough of this formality. Ring for Foster and have him bring tea." Kim waved her hand. Joseph set to the wall where a cord awaited and tugged upon it, prompting the arrival of a distinguished looking man.  
  
Frank noticed how his wife's eyes swivelled over Foster, but refrained from comment.  
  
"Ah, Foster," Kim started before her husband could speak, "I would be most grateful for tea."

"Of course, my Lady." Foster bowed, before retreating to prepare the tea.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't speak to him like that." Frank shook his head. "You indulge him to step out of place."  
  
"As you indulge Jean?" his wife retorted snippily, irritated at his comment.  
  
"We are not discussing Jean."  
  
"Well, that makes a change." Christopher offered his two-penny's worth, not in support of his stepmother, but in an attempt to make his own point.  
  
"I am certain we could find a suitable school to take her for the next few years?" Kim suggested.  
  
"Jean remains here." Frank's word was final.  
  
"How do you expect to run the estate with a child running about like a menace?" Christopher challenged his father.  
  
"What do you say, Joseph? Do you consider your cousin to be a menace?" Frank asked.  
  
They were interrupted by the return of Foster, carrying a fine silver tray adorned with a silver tea service, a doily draping prettily over the edges.  
  
He set the tray upon the coffee table, ensuring that everything was as it should be and stepped back to await further instruction under Kim's watchful eye.  
  
"No, Grandfather. I have no such opinion of my cousin," Joseph replied with dignity.  
  
He was an attractive young man, it had to be said. His suits were always exquisitely cut, tailored to his body exactly. Next to his father, they were practically brothers. He wore ties in a nod to modernity and stiff white collars that emphasised his long neck and angular jaw. His hair, milky tea in colour interwoven with fairer tones, was set in a severe parting to the left, swept down. He was handsome with breeding and charm to match, however rogueishly.  
  
James, by comparison, was as tall, yet fuller in feature. Smaller eyes, a wider jaw, but a determined nose and far softer nature. Where Joseph was ruthless and cunning, like his father, James was sedate and methodical.  
  
"I am glad to hear that, at least," Frank agreed, "Jean will remain here at Home Farm under the guidance of her tutor."  
  
"The tutor who takes your money and abandons her to her own devices," Christopher muttered.  
  
"Perhaps that is to her advantage," Kim reasoned, "she will never be cursed with such a broadened education, the burden of overthinking."  
  
"Oh, you are witty." Christopher met her eyes. "I daresay you could tutor her, if you so wished."  
  
Kim smirked.  
  
"Her Mama, doing the duty of a governess? I think not. Besides; your father has advised that the matter is closed."  
  
Her eyes darted sideways at Foster, offering him a fond yet smirking look.

"Having said that," Joseph remarked, "she is a little... wild, but I could never say menace."  
  
"You see?" Christopher interjected, "from my son."  
  
"Oh and of course we must take his opinion into account," Kim sneered, "offence unintended, naturally."  
  
"Why are we still talking about her?"  
  
"Point well made, Joseph. What did you want to say, Dad?"  
  
"What makes you think there is anything to say, Christopher?" Frank queried.  
  
"Well, we're all gathered here..."  
  
"James is missing," Frank pointed out.  
  
"Oh is he? I hadn't noticed," Christopher mocked, looking around, "seeing as it makes no difference to the conversation when he is here."  
  
"Christopher."  
  
"Spare me the looks of disdain, Dad. I'm an adult."  
  
"You're behaving like a five year old," Kim told him, "now, lets stop all this and have tea in peace."  
  
"The witch speaks," Christopher murmured.  
  
Kim returned this with a dark look, but kept her manner refined.  
  
"I do not wish to discuss business without James here," Frank announced.  
  
"Seeing as he is the only heir you care to include."  
  
"I do believe you are jealous of your brother, Christopher," Kim poured tea diligently.  
  
"Am I?" Christopher replied, "what on earth gave you that idea?"  
  
Kim was about to reply when Zoya, known as Zoe, strolled into the room.  
  
"Miss Tate," Foster extended a greeting to her. She smiled and handed him her coat, revealing her shirt and trousers combination with a riding jacket.  
  
"Oh, you might have dressed," Frank shook his head, "what on earth would the Sinclairs say?"  
  
"Why? Are we expecting them?" Zoe queried smartly.  
  
"You know exactly what I mean, Zoya."  
  
"Zoe,” Zoe corrected, "sounds far more modern than Zoya. Besides which, this is the height of fashion."  
  
She gestured to her ensemble.  
  
"Foster approves, don't you?" she turned to him.  
  
"Well... I... I don't think it my place to comment."  
  
"Nonsense!" Zoe exclaimed, "you have an opinion, Foster and I shall hear it."  
  
"Well, I think it a smart ensemble," Foster answered.  
  
"You see, Dad, Foster approves." Zoe found herself a seat and joined the throng.  
  
"Hmm. Well, Foster, that will be all," Frank directed.  
  
"Yes, my Lord."  
  
Zoe immediately helped herself to tea.  
  
"You all look most pensive. Something wrong?"  
  
"We were in discussion over the matter of your sister and her place in the household."  
  
"My sister? Oh Dad, how long are you going to keep up this facade?" Zoe sighed.  
  
"Not in front of the servants," Frank warned.  
  
"Oh Dad!" Zoe groaned, dragging her hand across her face, "it’s 1927, not 1807! No one cares about a child being born out of wedlock!"  
  
"Ssh! Keep your voice down!"  
  
Kim watched on with amusement. Zoya was so predictable. To see her standing in her androgynous ensemble, debating her right to tell the truth in front of company; she admired her for her dedication.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because she could be listening," Frank hissed, "imagine the confusion it will cause her, an innocent child."  
  
"Dad's right, Zig, we don't want to scar her even more than she has to be,” Christopher added in support as his son chuckled.  
  
"Sometimes I find it difficult to differentiate between you and him," Zoe accused Christopher and Joseph.  
  
"Zoe, Dad does have a point. We don't need to tell the whole village. Especially not with this party coming up, all those eligible bachelors..." He sucked in his breath, "just imagine!"  
  
Zoe gave him a rueful look.  
  
"Will you ever grow up?"  
  
"Hmm..." Christopher contemplated, "no, I have Joseph here to live vicariously through me."  
  
He patted his son's back heartily.  
  
"Perhaps you could clear this away, Foster and check on luncheon?" Frank suggested, looking agitated.  
  
"As you ask, Sir." Foster swept the tray from the coffee table and withdrew from the room.  
  
"Zoya, I hope I don't have to remind you of the family position."  
  
"Legs in the air," Christopher offered.  
  
"Ha ha," Zoe scoffed, "exactly when do you plan to tell my daughter who her mother is?"  
  
"You gave her to our care," Kim retorted, holding Frank's hand, "we agreed it was best... given your... circumstances."  
  
"Oh, I see. The family coup," Zoe frowned, "and what if I decide to tell her myself?"  
  
"I thought you were more sensible than that." Her father sighed sympathetically.  
  
"Dad adores her, Zoe," Christopher announced, "she's his own darling little cherub, or so Miss Ladderbanks and Miss Eagleton told us."  
  
"She's mine," Zoe stated defiantly.  
  
"Your father has done everything to prevent a scandal," Kim spoke up, "and this is how you repay his generosity, his kindness? Zoya, you forget yourself."  
  
"No, this family forgets itself." Zoya marched toward the door, "Jean is my daughter and always will be. As if you could ever claim to be a mother," she directed her insult at Kim.  
  
"Zoya!" Frank called after her, but Kim tugged his sleeve.  
  
"Leave her, Frank," Kim told him, kissing his cheek. "Perhaps you could occupy yourselves elsewhere. You know how the doctor feels about your father in tense situations."  
  
"Perhaps you could take care of him,” Christopher suggested, a wicked glint in his eyes, "come on, Joseph. A game of billiards is in order."  
  
Joseph followed his father from the room, leaving Kim alone with Frank.  
  
"Another chapter,” he advised Kim, who fetched his notepad and pen. "Thank you."  
  
"Don't you worry, Zoya will soon see sense. She has such a fiery spirit."  
  
"I know," Frank acknowledged.  
  
"I shall speak to her," Kim insisted, kissing his head, dragging herself away to the door.  
  
However, her intentions were centred elsewhere. She followed the hallway along to a cupboard, noticing Foster collecting things from it and approached him.  
  
"Bravo on your appraisal,” she grinned, as he turned to face her.  
  
"I don't think this is wise, do you, milady?"  
  
"Oh, drop the formality, Foster. My husband has lost all interest."  
  
"Then he is a fool."  
  
"I am glad we are agreed." She pushed him against the shelves, wrapping him in a passionate embrace, their kisses urgent and fiery.  
  
"Milady..."  
  
"Know your place, Foster." She ruffled his smoothed down hair. “You do as your Lady tells you to."  
  
Unbeknownst to them both, a pair of intrigued eyes were watching from the gap in the stairway. She knew that Mama and Papa loved each other, but Mama seemed to love Foster too. But he was a servant?  
  
She backed away as their passion intensified, closing her eyes and fleeing to her room.


	3. The Black Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Jean makes an intriguing discovery and a rivalry is fuelled.

"Eh, what's goin' on here, then?" Nicola asked brusquely as her young charge bounded into the nursery, leaping straight into the chair by the sashed window. It was a pleasant, bright room, decorated in an elaborate fashion for a child so young, all pink and white fripperies and expensive Morris paper adorning the walls. It was the ideal of girlhood, containing a plethora of dolls, a fine dolls house and two large bookcases crammed with books. The armchair itself was also pink, the softest powder blush with a buttoned back and curved seat.

"Nothing." Jean gathered her knees to her chest, looking forlorn in her now crumpled lace trimmed dress and neat button shoes.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me, young miss." Nicola eyed her suspiciously. "come along now, what is it?"

Jean shook her head, neat dark bob bouncing sweetly with the movement.

Nicola dropped the blanket she was folding and went to the chair where Jean sat, leaning to her level.

"Miss Jean, there's nothing so bad as a child that tells a tale."

"I'm not telling tales!" Jean remonstrated, "I haven't said anything!"

"And that is the point." Nicola adapted her tone to a more stern approach, hauling herself up, "you need to tell the truth."

Jean sighed deeply, preparing herself.

"I saw something." She admitted.

"Oh?" Nicola's interest was piqued. "what did you see?"

Jean looked up at her, briefly, then hung her head.

"Mama...and Foster."

A spark flashed in Nicola's eyes.

"Mama and Foster? You must have that wrong, young miss. Of course you do." Nicola reeled off, secretly filled with glee. What an advantage to have, to have the upper hand for once. Not that she disliked Foster, but he was, in her opinion, cold and obnoxious. "Your Mama loves your Papa dearly, perhaps you thought you saw something, but it was someone else."

"It was Mama. I am sure of it." Jean replied defiantly.

"Now, now, I doubt that. But, it is time for your walk." Nicola checked her schedule, "shall we?" She went to the wardrobe and took out the girl's outerwear, the garments as fine and elegant as her 'Mama's.' Truly, no expense was spared, Nicola knew, as far as her master was concerned.  
She placed the hat on Jean's head, taking care to adjust the pleats on the structured swing coat and led her charge downstairs and out of the side door, past the kitchen, where the staff were working frantically to prepare dinner.

In the study downstairs, Christopher looked up from his papers as his valet, Master Biff Fowler, entered.

"You're late," he snarled.

"Apologies, my Lord." Fowler sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth. "I was—"

"Up late with one of the ladies of the village, no doubt?" Christopher sneered. "Spare me your excuses. I need to be in the village by five."

"Certainly, my Lord. I'll ready the car." Fowler headed out to where Christopher's vehicle could be found, leaving the Lord glaring resentfully after him. Christopher despised Fowler, who was young, able-bodied and attractive to the local women, everything that Christopher himself used to be. The same could be said of Christopher's own son, but he felt nothing but pride where Master Joseph was concerned. A fine specimen, in spite of his illegitimacy.

"Good afternoon, my Lord." The groundskeeper, Liam Hammond, had entered, looking scruffy as ever.

"Good afternoon, Hammond," Christopher replied courteously. He'd had an uncharacteristic respect for the groundskeeper, who had been with the family many years, ever since Hammond had rescued the young Joseph from a passing motorcar.

"How is the Earl of Miffield today?"

"My 'sister' is running rings around him, as always." Christopher's sarcasm was obvious, it was an open secret that Jeanie was actually the daughter of Zoya Tate. "As is his wife."

"The Lady Tate should know her place. You and your son are more entitled to your titles than she." Hammond reddened slightly. "I shouldn't speak out of turn."

"By all means, speak your mind. You're practically family." Christopher looked past Hammond to where the returned Fowler was now standing and barked "Is my car ready yet?"

"Trouble with the engine, my Lord."

"I'll take a look," offered Hammond.

"Thank you, Hammond," Christopher returned to his paperwork. "I'm glad there's somebody of competence around here."

Fowler grimaced darkly.

"Time to go in, now I think. They'll be setting up supper soon." Nicola remarked as they reached the end of the rose garden after a brisk, yet tiresome walk.

"I like it out here." Jean replied solemnly, threading another daisy in a chain as she plucked them from the grass.

"You and me both." Nicola muttered to herself, putting a hand on Jean's shoulder, "come on, else they'll miss us."

"Why would Mama kiss Foster?"

"I don't know, Miss." Nicola sighed. In truth she knew exactly why Lady Tate might do so, but would keep that for later.

"He can't love her. She has Papa." Jean stated.

Nicola felt slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of returning the child to the house. Goodness knows what might happen at the dinner table.

"Well, Foster is fond of everyone." She suggested, giving a cursory look to the darkening sky, "we'd better hurry back, it looks as though it might rain. Goodness knows what your Mama would say if I allowed you to get wet!"

She tugged on the girl's arm, leading her back toward the house. The lights were glimmering in all the downstairs windows with a lone glow from the master bedroom.

Jean noticed the car at the front of the house as they approached and ran towards it, Nicola following in haste.

"Miss Jean!" She called, however her attempt was futile.

"The car! The car!" She crowed, dancing around it much to the amusement of Hammond.

"Indeed, Miss. Tis a car! Would you like to see how it works?"

Jean stopped and surveyed Hammond with interest. She had been taught about the boundaries of servants, her position in relation to them.

"Is it appropriate for me?" She asked with dignity.

"I don't see why not, your Mama's got no problem with it."

"Mr Hammond," Nicola fought to catch her breath, "Miss Jean is a young lady."

"I can see, but even young ladies must have some practical knowledge." He grinned at Jean; who smiled sweetly back.

"Go on, then, but be quick about it before Her Ladyship catches you." Nicola gabbled.

Jean listened with interest as Hammond propped her on the bonnet, talking to her as he worked to fix the car. He was surprised at her genuine curiosity, responding with intelligent questions that he could barely answer.

"I think we're done." He declared, sweeping her off the bonnet and setting it back into place, "thank you for your assistance, Miss."

Jean waved her hand courteously as she had seen Kim do and climbed up into the driver's seat, squeezing the horn and laughing breezily.

The sound alerted the household to the windows and within moments, a red faced Frank stormed out into the grounds.

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded.

"Miss Jean wanted to see the car." Liam explained.

"Papa, Mr Hammond has been telling me about the workings. He's been very nice to me. I have decided I should like to be a mechanic."

Christopher, who had also wheeled himself to explore the source of the commotion, sniggered.

Fury filled Frank's face.

"I see, well, we shall have to see about that." He glared at Hammond, who continued wiping his hands, rubbing the back of one across his brow.

"Kinsett, take the child inside." Francis instructed Nicola, who beckoned Jean to her, helping her down from the car.

"Papa, Mr Hammond was very nice to me, please don't be angry."

Frank remained cold, stern.

"Come away, Miss." Nicola ushered her into the house.

Frank strode to the door of the car, his eyes dark.

"Do you value your position, here, Hammond?"

"Of course sir."

"Then you will oblige me by explaining why my daughter, who holds a position of rank in society, would be declaring that she intends to become a mechanic?"

"I was showing the young lady a car. Teaching her something practical."

"It is not your place to teach her anything, do you understand, Hammond?"

"Dad, if Jeanie wanted to see the car, Hammond was only doing as you asked." Christopher remarked, wheeling himself out onto the drive, accompanied by Fowler.

"Christopher, this is not your concern." Francis replied, without looking at him.

"No, nothing ever is. However, unless you release Hammond I will be late to our appointment with the Wyldes. I can't imagine what scandal that will cause if the Earl of Miffield's son turns up after the designated arrival time, but there you go."

"I have my eye on you, Hammond." Frank relented, his parting words sour as he slammed the front door.

"Don't mind him, will you, Hammond?" Christopher asked.

"I'll try not to, my Lord."

"Please, Milord, I didn't mean for Miss Jeanie to get involved with Mr Hammond and the car." Kinsett begged, running along beside Lord Tate as he re-entered the house, her expression pitiful.

"I hope you will ensure that it doesn't happen again," Francis stopped outside the door to the nursery, Kinsett beside him. "I do not want my daughter consorting with the likes of Hammond, is that clear?"

"Quite, sir." Nicola bowed her head respectfully.

"Good. I am grateful for your loyalty to us, Kinsett."

"Milord." She replied, slipping into the nursery.

Meanwhile her young charge crawled beneath the dining table downstairs, tracing the intricate pattern on the carpet. Besides the under stair cupboard, which was warm and cosy, it was her favourite place to hide.

She crawled across to the spare wheelchair that Christopher used when his main contraption was under attention for its wheels or suchlike and dug her hand into the pocket at the back. Her fingers caught upon a ridged surface and she clasped at it, bringing it out of the pocket.

A black book, engraved with the initials of its owner CFT was the prize of her curiosity.

She opened it carefully, sitting cross legged beside the chair and perused the contents with a concentrated frown.

"Miss Baker, 8pm, Friday, Miss Dingle, 9pm Tuesday, Miss Glover!" Jeanie gaped at the name. Miss Glover was one of the housemaids, a kind yet strong young woman whose family's land was owned by the Tates.

She closed the book and slotted it back into place, checking that no one had seen her before strapping herself into the wheelchair and wheeling around in it.

It was quite difficult to manoeuvre at first, the adjustments had been designed to suit Christopher exactly, but Jeanie was determined to prove to herself that she could manage and let off the brake, pulling herself around the table.

The movement was quite strenuous and her muscles ached, but she wouldn't give up.

She wheeled herself to the window and sat there, looking out on the grounds so lovingly tended by Hammond. She spotted him at the edge of the rose garden and gave him a wave. He raised his hand to return the greeting, but something made him stop and he turned away sharply.

Jeanie slumped back into the chair, sighing deeply.

"My Lady!" Lydia entered the room, her hand poised with the new fangled vacuum cleaner that Blackstock had purchased for the house.

Jeanie looked up at the exclamation and smiled.

"Hello Lydia?"

"Miss, are you sure you ought to be playing in that? Tis Lord Christopher's, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Crispy won't mind. He never catches me, anyway."

She wheeled the chair backwards and then forwards to round the table, just as Christopher entered.

The sight of his able bodied niece in the chair he was bound to infuriated him.

"Oh, Crispy?" Jeanie pursed her cupids bow lips.

"Get out of the chair."

She did so immediately, standing up.

"I'm sorry, Crispy."

"You think its funny? Do you? Being bound to a chair?"

"No." Jeanie shook her head.

"Get out of my sight." He seethed, as she fled.

"And what are you staring at?" He turned upon Lydia, who flinched.

"Nothing, sir." She replied.

"Then get on with your work, do what you're paid for!"

"Sir." Lydia returned to using the vacuum cleaner, rolling it across in neat strips across the carpet.

Christopher allowed his head to fall into his hand, the sound of the cleaner droning in his head.

"Turn that infernal thing off, now." He called out to Lydia, who immediately removed it from his presence, as Joseph entered, finding his father in a state.

"Father?" He approached him.

"Joseph." Christopher acknowledged him coldly.

"I heard the ruckus, I thought you might have want of assistance."

"No." His father looked over him, "and how have you occupied your day, hmm? Still at leisure?" he asked sarcastically.

Joseph huffed, affronted.

"I am not a child, father. I can do as I please. Any such time away from the business is my own."

"Spending the afternoons idle, when you could be learning, applying yourself to the management of the estate."

"I'm never going to run it, Father, you know that. Not as long as dear Uncle James is at the helm."

"However James isn't, is he? I want you to see this as an opportunity, Joseph. To prove your worth to your Grandfather. If you manage the accounts successfully, he may consider providing you with your own part of the estate."

"Oh, father, dash it all." Joseph shook his head, smirking, "I've had enough of classroom workmanship. I've been an apprentice since I returned. Grandfather has always denied me favour over James, but I intend to change that."

"Whilst you present yourself as a charmless brat your fortunes will never change. My father is one of the old guard, Joseph. He expects respect, a certain style of behaviour. You're a threat to him with your modern ideals."

"Oh, come on, father, I don't gamble, I rarely drink..." scoffed Joseph, pacing in a brisk fashion, "what does he expect me to do? Spend the afternoon shut away like James, barely able to string two words together."

"If you could show him that you are committed to the business, he may trust you."

"So I have to win the trust of my own grandfather for him to consider any improvement on my income?"

"Yes." Christopher sighed, "oh and do try not to encourage Jeanie to rebel."

"What difference does it make, Father, really?"

"Because he adores her, she's his little princess. If you offend her, you offend him."

"Alright, I'll take your word. I promise not to corrupt Jeanie's little mind with scandalous talk." Joseph recited, mockingly. "Am I excused?"

"Joseph, I want you to do well. I want my father to trust you. He's never shown faith in me, but you have an opportunity, use it."

"I will do, father." Joseph nodded, patting the back of his chair.

"Good. Do what I can't."


	4. Jam and Japes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The intrigue continues as dinner takes a fraught turn upstairs and downstairs...

"Do you think Mr Hammond will be in trouble with Papa?" Jean asked curiously as she and Nicola reached the door of the nursery.

"I don't know, Miss. That's the truth of it." Nicola responded simply, opening the door to the pretty room. She observed her charge's solemn look and sighed. It was true what Mrs Blackstock said, there were "nowt happy wi'money".

Jean sat down placidly on the carpet, picking up two dolls for the dolls house and placed them inside.

"What are you doing there, Miss?" She queried, satisfied to see that Jean had found something to occupy herself.

Jean shut the dolls house, going to her chair by the window. Nicola frowned, carefully opening the dolls house, her eyes widening at the arrangement of the butler doll and lady of the house, obviously positioned straight from Jean's memory.

She rearranged them, brushing her hands down on her apron as though tainted and shook her head, returning to her duties.

"Miss, come here, let me look at you." Nicola insisted, as Jean stood obediently in front of her, her dress stained from the car bonnet, her hair tousled.

"Think we'd better get you cleaned up," she told the girl decisively.

Jean nodded and stood as Nicola dressed her, taking out a fine dropped waist style dress of softest lilac, with a charming little white lace collar and cuffs.

Downstairs, the kitchen was abuzz with gossip as the finishing touches were placed to the main course. Amelia Spencer, a hardy if withdrawn child of thirteen years scurried about the room, sweeping the coal dust from the floor amid barks and calls for her to do this, do that.

"Mightn't we quicken the pace a little, Melia?" Mrs Blackstock advised, tapping her shoulder.

"Yes'm." Was Amelia's meek reply. Mrs Blackstock rounded the large preparation table in the centre of the room, checking each dish in turn.

"Another triumph, I daresay, Victoria." She commented to the young woman collecting dishes from the oven.

She was surprisingly young by usual Cook standards, but Blackstock had been so impressed by her enthusiasm and dedication at the interview that she had hired her on the spot. There was no question of her ability. Miss Victoria Sugden as was, despite the trial of distance from her husband, Adam Barton, had remained faithful and had channelled her melancholy into her work.

Prior to her employment she had been apprentice to an endearing chef of the local public house, which, by request, offered hearty homecooked fare throughout the day, but the landlords of the house could not quite bring themselves to do something so vulgar as to advertise this advantage.

"Melia, another plate here." Blackstock instructed, pointing at the table.

Melia dropped the broom at once with a clatter, charging toward the cupboard, barely aware of Foster as he entered. The group of servants gathered in the corner, enjoying a brief moment of respite suddenly stood to attention like soldiers. Foster commanded authority, his uniform of black tailcoat and pin striped trousers always pristine, his collar perfectly starched and his hair smoothed over with Brylcreem.

"Good evening." He greeted them all, "are we on time, Mrs Blackstock?"

"As clockwork, Mr Foster."

He gave a grunt, tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket and moved further into the kitchen, noticing the abandoned broom. His eyes fell on Melia, who was frozen by the door.

"Yours, Miss Spencer?" He asked softly.

Melia nodded.

Foster reached down and brought up the broom to full height.

"I asked Melia to fetch another plate." Blackstock explained, "go on, now." She urged the girl, who scuttled away.

"Beggin' yer pardons," Victoria set the main dish upon the table.

Foster moved swiftly aside to allow her to arrange the dishes and propped the broom against the chair.

"The family is assembled in the dining room." He announced.

"Who are we to attend upon tonight?"

"His Lordship, Her Ladyship, Master Joseph, His Lordship the Younger and Miss Jean." Foster counted them off.

"The child is dining with them?" Blackstock was startled.

"Indeed." Foster answered, a hint of suspicion playing through his tone; "you have some objection, Mrs Blackstock?"

"Not at all." Blackstock corrected herself.

"Good. I shall inform the family that dinner is ready. Kindall, follow me please." Foster instructed, addressing a bald headed, doleful looking man with hound like eyes and a meek expression.

"Right away, sir." He jumped to attention, plodding to the preparation table where the dishes were laid.

"You watch yourself now, Jimmy." Blackstock warned, "we don't want any more accidents."

"No, no, Missus." Jimmy replied; adjusting the plates in his hands.

"Well, good luck; anyhow." Blackstock told him uncertainly, watching Jimmy stumble from the room, barely balancing the dishes in his hands.

"Poor Jimmy," Victoria remarked, pityingly, dusting off her hands, "he does mean well, you know."

"Nobody could doubt his enthusiasm." Blackstock admitted, "its his ability that one has to call into question."

"So Foster says." Victoria shook her head, "must be 'ard for him though. Used to live here with his own."

"How the mighty fall." Biff commented over her shoulder, snatching an apple from the bowl.

"Don't you have anything else to be doing, Mr Fowler?" Blackstock reprimanded him, "you'd better not let Mr Foster hear you talkin' like that."

"Don't intend to; do I?" Biff responded cockily, sitting down next to Ross Barton, another footman and Master Joseph's trusted valet.

"Here, what are you still doing down here?" Blackstock demanded of Ross, shocked to see him still seated at the servants table.

"Taking my tea break." Ross informed her with a shrug.

"Not on my watch, Mr Barton. The family are about to eat and you're meant to be up there, helping Jimmy."

"And he needs all the help he can get." Biff nudged Ross with a cruel chuckle.

"Well, come on!" Blackstock urged.

Ross made a great show of standing slowly, adjusting his dress coat, "want to look my best" before departing upstairs to the family.

"And you Mr Fowler." Blackstock turned her flinty eyes on him, "I suggest you set to preparing His Lordship's trousseau. Unless you have some mending to do?"

She was aware that Fowler despised his master, however much she had tried to encourage him to respect him.

Biff kicked the side of the chair and collected the work basket from the cupboard with a vicious look.

"Where is Melia?" Blackstock queried to the group.

"Haven't seen her." Replied the tight voice of Livvie Flaherty.

"Oh goodness, you don't suppose..." She looked around worriedly, noticing the broom was still untouched where Foster had left it. Ross returned to collect more dishes and carried them upstairs.

As he passed the dining room he noticed a figure crouched in the corner, going through the drawers.

"Ey!" He hissed.

Melia stood up and spun around; terrified.

"Oh, its you!"

"Yea, its me. What yer doin' in 'ere?"

"Mrs Blackstock said to get us 'nother plate." The girl explained.

"Aye, but not from 'ere!" Ross scoffed, beckoning her out, "come on, before Foster sees yer."

Muffled voices were heard next door, becoming increasingly louder as they approached.

"Melia!" Ross pulled her out of sight as the family entered the dining room.

"Now what?" Melia whimpered.

"Ssh." Ross covered her up with a curtain, "stay, don't move."

Melia nodded and Ross retrieved his own penny from the carpet.

"Well, we are privileged, it seems." Lady Tate declared as they sat down at the table, "Mr Barton, are you a conjuror on the quiet?"

Foster fixed his eyes on the footman.

"A conjuror? Really?" Jean piped up, her face flushed with excitement.

"Be quiet, please." Lady Tate shushed her.

"Yes Mama."

"What is this nonsense?" Lord Francis assumed his seat. "Conjurors?"

"A fancy." Lady Tate answered, whipping her napkin in agitation.

Frank caught Jean's disappointed face and attended her at once.

"Little Champion? What on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing, Papa."

Frank's eyes flew to his wife.

"Perhaps it has something to do with your behaviour earlier today. We shall have to have a little word with Mr Hammond. Mechanics are hardly appropriate for a young lady. Unless, of course, you intend to follow your sister's example." She emphasised 'sister' with scorn evident to everyone but Jean.

"Never mind that. I have spoken to Hammond." Frank assured her crisply, "and I think you know, Little Champion, that I have your best interests at heart. Silly old Papa got too cross. He did not mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared; Papa." Jean confided, putting her napkin daintily on her lap.

"Good. Because Papa loves you."

Kim sipped her wine with disgust.

"Are we late?" Joseph entered in evening dress with James at his side.

"Not at all." Francis bade them sit down at the table and the family assembled.

Christopher was already seated at the end of the table, his father at the head, with his eldest son on his left side and Kim on the other. She sat next to Joseph, James and Zoya opposite and Jean on Joseph's left side.

The bell rang and the family were assembled, the servants attending promptly.

"What is this, Papa?" Jean asked as her plate was placed in front of her.

"Asparagus, Little Champion. A rare delicacy in these troubled times."

"Then why are we eating it?" Joseph queried.

"Because Father likes to show off, Joseph." Replied Christopher coldly.

"Its funny. Its like long broccoli." Jeanie declared, picking it up with her fingers.

"Put it back on the plate and pick it up properly," Kim scolded, "we do not pick things up with our fingers?" She grabbed them, "and they are quite filthy! What have you been doing?"

"I..." Jeanie looked to Francis for support, but he was engaged in a conversation with Christopher.

Zoya avoided looking at Jeanie, her heart struggling to detach herself.

"Leave the table at once and clean them! You may come back when they are washed." She tapped Jeanie's hands sharply, making them sting in red patches, "disobedient child."

"What is going on?" Francis heard the slap.

"Jeanie has filthy hands. No doubt she has been playing with machinery."

"I am sure she hasn't, Father." Zoya attempted to pacify him as his expression clouded, "she wouldn't disobey you." Her long plait flicked sidewards as she turned her head.

"We'll soon find out. Foster, advise Hammond that he is to report to me at the earliest instance after dinner."

Jeanie returned moments later, as Mama caught her by the shoulder as she passed her chair and took her aside to inspect her fingers.

"Cleaner, I suppose?" She sniffed, "so, what have you been doing?"

"Um..." Jeanie looked to Francis, who was still talking with Christopher.

"No, look at me." Kim took her by the chin, "I asked you a question and I want you to answer it."

"I was..." she caught Christopher's wheelchair in her gaze and looked up at her 'Mama.' "I was playing with Crispy's chair."

"Hence the disgusting state of your hands. That was very naughty of you, Jeanie." She shook her head, "so, go to your brother and apologise."

Jeanie's expression was mournful as she approached the gap between her Papa and Christopher and their conversation trailed off.

"Well, what do we have here, Little Champion?" Francis kissed Jeanie's little hands.

"Mama said I was to apologise."

"For what?"

Francis eyed Kim distrustfully.

Christopher kept his eyes forward.

"To me. She stole my chair. She was playing about in it."

"Oh, come now, Christopher, Jeanie was just curious, weren't you, Little Champion?" He asked kindly.

Jeanie nodded.

"But I am truly sorry, Crispy. I am."

"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat?" Christopher replied, his eyes darting at her, seeing all innocence there in her face and relented.

"I accept your apology, but don't ever let me catch you playing with it again. It is not a toy."

"Sorry, Crispy."

"Now, Father, about this meeting, the dinner with Macey and his cronies..."

"Yes, I've booked it in. Friday, at 7:30pm."

"Thanks. I'll take the car."

"You won't be able to do that, Crispy?" Jean spoke up, her brow creasing thoughtfully.

"Oh, why not?" Christopher retorted, annoyed at her interference.

"You're seeing Miss Dingle."

Joseph, who had happened to take a gulp of wine, choked, almost spluttering the contents across the table.

"What is this, Christopher?" Francis demanded.

"I haven't the faintest idea." Bluffed Christopher, but Zoya saw the truth in his eyes.

"You're seeing Miss Baker on Tuesday, Miss Dingle on Friday and Miss Glover..."

Christopher's mouth twitched.

"When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?" He hissed.

"Is this true, Christopher?" Francis asked sternly.

"If it is, we shall certainly have to plan for these occasions," Kim interjected, "three dinner parties in one week, Christopher. How extravagant." Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Jeanie, Little Champion, why don't you go with Miss Hart, see if she can find you some toast and jam."

"Again?" Sneered Joseph, "if that is the case, may I be dismissed from the table too, Grandfather? The offerings are better in the kitchen, it seems." He smirked, adjusting his collar.

"Yes and you may also leave, Zoya."

"I am staying." Zoya declared.

"Come along, Miss."

Kinsett came forward at once and ushered Jeanie out of the room, shutting the door behind them as she led Jeanie to the servants hall.


	5. Oranges and Lemons

Nothing more was said about the events of the previous night's dinner and for the duration of the following day, all seemed well.

It was mid-afternoon and Jeanie, left to her own device after Kinsett had assigned her to study, had wandered downstairs to the drawing room and stationed herself first at the piano, then at the desk and then, in a sudden spark of inspiration, had seated herself by the gramophone, looking through the small collection of records.

The addition of a gramophone to the drawing room had been most welcome, even if Christopher complained that it was irritating and distracting in equal measure.

Selecting one, she placed it on the gramophone desk.  
_"Poor Little Rich Girl, Poor little rich girl_  
_You're a bewitched girl_  
_Better take care_  
_Laughing at danger_  
_Virtue a stranger_  
_Better beware_  
_The life you lead sets all your nerves a-jangle_  
_You love affairs are in a hopeless tangle_  
 _Though you're a child, dear_  
 _Your life's a wild typhoon."_  
  
Jeanie listened to the song, tapping her feet along the carpet, her head slumped against her hand, twisting one of the paperweights next to the gramophone.

"Very apt, I'd say?" A voice startled her and she jumped to her feet, spinning to face them.

"Joseph!"

"That would be Lord Joseph to you, surely?" Joseph corrected her promptly.

"Don't think so." Jeanie twisted her fingers awkwardly.

"Listening to the grammy again, are we?" He nudged her out of the way to examine the records on offer. "Ah, here's one for you. Teddy Bears Picnic? Dear old Papa is really spoiling you, isn't he?"

"No he isn't!" Jeanie protested.

"What's wrong? You seem a little sour today? Hmm, lemon face?"

He went to pinch her cheek and she ducked from his hand, stumbling backwards.

"Come along, Jeanie. What is it? You can tell me anything, you know?" He put on his most innocent look, all wide blue eyes and soft smile, leaning down to her level.

"I saw something."

"Well, that's nothing unusual, is it? I see things all the time." Joseph grinned, "but if it is something so very shocking, do tell!"

"I saw Mama. Mama in the cupboard." Jeanie broached the subject carefully, looking nervous.

"Mama in the cupboard?" Joseph mocked, "whoever heard of such a thing?"

"It wasn't just Mama, it was the butler."

"Foster?" Joseph almost choked on his smirk, "Foster? Our Foster?"

Jeanie nodded.

"I say!"

"You mustn't say!" Jeanie protested.

"Then tell me, what were they doing?"

"Kissing." Jeanie confessed, demonstrating the position, "like they were dancing."

"How scandalous!" Joseph cried, keeping his manner blase and mocking but inside he was revelling. What a brilliant advantage to play against Kim?

"I thought so. I mentioned it to Kinsett. But doesn't Mama love Papa?"

Joseph stifled a chuckle.

"I suppose so. Yes." He nodded, "but, you're not to worry, little glum chum. Mama and Papa love you dearly." He thumped her on the back supportively.

"I know Papa does. Mama doesn't like me." She sighed.

"Who could not like you, little cousin mine?" Joseph knelt down on the carpet, pouting at her.

"Not your cousin." Jeanie tilted her head at him, confused.

"No...but I can't call you Auntie Jeanie, now can I? I'm older than you."

"Suppose not."

"There's no suppose so about it." Joseph replied firmly, patting her arm, "I should really insist on calling you Little Aunt, but I won't, because that would be cruel." He beamed at her, "and if you say that Foster and dear Grandmama were kissing in the cupboard, then I believe you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Ladies don't tell falsehoods, do they?" He confided.

She shook her head as the record scratched, declaring its end.

"Another turn?" Joseph suggested, holding out his hand.

Jeanie hauled herself from the chair as Joseph set another record on the turntable again.

"Baby Face?" Jeanie folded her arms crossly.

"What better song is there?" Joseph replied, bobbing to the melody. "Come on, glum chum?"

Jean rolled her eyes and took his hand, laughing as he twirled her around.

" _I fell in love with your pretty Baby Face_!" He sang in a pleasant fashion.

"Well, that is a new one on me, I confess." Kim swept into the room, eyeing them with suspicion, a smirk on her face. The two younger members of the family ceased dancing at once, Joseph standing in front of his 'aunt' protectively.

"I was under the mistaken impression that from 2 o clock to four o clock was your engagement for study, Jean?" Kim addressed her directly.

Jean gulped.

"Yes Mama."

"Then perhaps you should get back to it."

"She's not going anywhere." Joseph's eyes blazed back at Kim.

"This doesn't concern you, Joseph."

"I doubt Grandfather would say the same." Joseph returned boldly, "I fail to see why Jeanie should not be allowed some time to indulge in music if she wishes?"

"Well, that is my prerogative, as her mother."

"Mother?" Joseph repeated, scoffing.

"Jean, back to Kinsett." Kim instructed.

"No." Jean answered, "you kissed the butler, you kissed Mr Foster."

"What nonsense is this?" Kim demanded, "a servant? What a fanciful imagination you have."

"I'm not sure she does!" Joseph crowed.

"Jean? I believe Kinsett is waiting? Unless you'd like an extended study and no supper?"

The girl hesitated, looking up at Joseph.

"Go along, I can manage." He insisted.

Jean raised herself on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, before scuttling off.

"Just us, then." Joseph commented.

"Don't be so vulgar." Kim spat, placing her gloves on the back of the sofa.

"It is true, isn't it? You and Foster?" Joseph's eyes glinted mischievously. "I wonder what dear Grandfather will say to that?"

"Don't play games, Joseph. You don't have the wit and I don't have the patience." Kim warned.

"I'll take that as a yes?"

"Take it as you please." Kim placed herself on the sofa, elegantly.

"Then, I have to ask, what is it worth? For me to remain quiet? Hmm?" Joseph tilted his head.

"I sincerely hope that you're not trying to blackmail me?" Kim scowled.

"Take it as you please." Joseph smirked at her.

"Oh, how original you are." Kim draped her arm on the back of the sofa.

"I know. Its one of my most redeeming qualities." Joseph took a seat opposite her. "so, the butler and the Lady of the House?"

"Whatever you think, Joseph, you are taking the word of a silly little girl."

"Your 'daughter'." Joseph reminded her, "or not. We all know the truth, Grandmother."

"No, you are presuming to know. Very different," Kim drawled, eyes flashing with challenge, "you have no proof, Joseph. So I'm sorry, but the bank is closed for today."

"I'll be certain to advise Foster." Joseph responded wittily, leaving the room with a satisfied expression.


	6. The Butler and The Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weeks continue, but things are stirring...

For a while it seemed that things were settled. The preparations for the party continued downstairs, whilst upstairs, Christopher, Joseph and James went about their business and Foster and Kim continued their dangerous liaisons.

"Good morning, Lord Tate," said Miss Windsor flirtatiously as she entered the drawing room where Christopher and Zoya were seated.

"Good morning, Kelly," said Christopher unctuously. Miss Windsor, who had recently been employed as a maid, was another pet member of staff chosen by Lord Christopher, although unlike Miss Glover, she welcomed the Lord's attentions. "Haven't I told you to call me Christopher?"

"Oh I wouldn't feel right, sir, you're practically royalty!" Miss Windsor tittered. Christopher basked in the adulation.

"Did you want something, Miss Windsor?" Zoya asked coolly, barely glancing at her.

Miss Windsor cast a scornful eye over Zoya's attire. The Lady was back in her androgynous clothing. This time, a set of checked trousers, a navy waistcoat that looked as though it might just have been purloined from a gentleman's tailor and had been fitted to Lady Zoya's exact proportions. Kelly swept forward in her grey calf length dress and white apron, neat frilled white cap atop her caramel coloured hair. "Just checking if his Lordship required anything?"

"If he does I'm sure he will ring for you."

Miss Windsor nodded, turned and curtsied to Christopher and left the room, smoothing down her skirt at the back.

"I do wish you wouldn't embarrass yourself over the staff so," Zoya remarked as Miss Windsor closed the door. "She's young enough to be your..."

"What? Younger sister?" Christopher returned. "She's only our dear brother's age..."

"Which is younger than your son." Zoya turned a page of the book she was reading.

"Yet still older than your daughter. Sorry, I meant our sweet little sister. Papa's darling."

"Just because you were allowed to keep your illegitimate offspring and I wasn't..."

"Always the victim," Christopher mocked harshly. "Perhaps if you'd been born a man all your problems would be solved."

"I have no interest in being a man." Zoya glared at her brother. "Your sex is of no interest to me."

"Perhaps you should keep that to yourself. We want to avoid any further scandal, where we can." Christopher turned his attention back to the newspaper.

"What are you doing?" Fowler asked as he approached the drawing room, having heard the bell for service. Miss Windsor was standing with her ear to the door, raised voices coming from within.

"Shh," Miss Windsor hushed him. "Lord Christopher's having a row with his sister."

"So? They're always rowing, that family." Fowler shrugged.

"Did you know Miss Jeanie was Lady Zoya's?"

"Of course, the whole household knows."

"Lord Christopher don't seem too happy about it."

"Why do you fawn over him?" Fowler asked disgustedly. "He's vile."

"He's not that bad. You can tell he used to be handsome, before he was crippled."

"I'll thank you not to talk about my father like that," said a voice behind them. The servants swung to see Lord Joseph Tate glaring at them. "And I don't believe you're paid to stand around and gossip."

"Sorry, Lord Joseph," said Miss Windsor, batting her eyelashes. "I was just saying what a handsome man your father still is... like father, like son," she added, running her eyes down Joseph's form. The young Lord was attired in another country style suit, with a fine burgundy coloured tie and sharp white cuffs. Fowler rolled his eyes.

"Don't you have something to be getting on with?" Joseph asked Fowler.

"Yes, my Lord." Fowler avoided making eye contact with Joseph as he retreated.

"And as for you…" Joseph approached Miss Windsor, who braced herself to be sacked. "Do you often listen at doorways?"

"No sir, of course not!"

"Pity." Joseph frowned. "I was going to ask you to follow my step-grandmother, report back on her movements. But if you're not interested..."

"Why do you want me to follow Lady Tate?" asked Miss Windsor, intrigued.

Joseph looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. "Let's just say Lady Tate has been indiscreet lately. I need evidence to present to my grandfather. Will you keep an eye out for me? There's an extra few shillings in it for you."

"Of course, but how do I know what I'm looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it." Joseph's eyes roved over Miss Windsor's skirt. "If you'll excuse me, I must talk to my father."

The younger Lord let himself into the drawing room, leaving Miss Windsor rather confused outside the door.

"Christopher, that is outrageous!" Zoya snapped at her brother, standing, with her cheeks flushed and eyes aflame.

"Zoya…"

"Oh, good morning Joseph." She greeted her nephew, "see if you can talk some sense into your father, will you? He seems to be struggling this morning."

"What is going on?"

"Your aunt believes that I indulge the servants too much."

"Isn't that how I came to be?"

"You're as bad as each other. Enjoy your breakfast, Joseph." Zoya shook her head, leaving the room.

"Oh, Zoya, darling," Kim swept past on her way to the front door, "oh, going riding?"

"No, just out to the village. One of the farmers has a problem with a poorly sheep, I thought I should attend as an observer to the treatment."

"Zoya," Kim took her hand, smiling sweetly, "you know how much I admire your dedication, your determination to support these causes of equality and suffrage."

"thank you."

"Oh no, it is my pleasure. However, there were a few…remarks made at our last…gathering for tea, with Miss Macey in attendance."

"Oh?"

"Yes, she implied that it was not in her interest to visit the home of someone who allows their household to be run as a bohemian slum."

"Did she?" Zoya was wise to Kim's snideness and removed her hand. "Well, it is none of Miss Macey's concern as to what I choose to do with my life. No more is it yours. I am a grown woman, Kim. I will not be coerced into your narrow minded view of how I should conduct myself. Now, if you will excuse me," she sought her hat in the row within the cupboard, picking out a maroon cloche with upturned trim and pulled it down with vigour, setting her chin and walking with grace to the door.

Kim turned away, helpless and knocked on the door of the study.

"Frank?"

"Yes, what is it?" Her husband glanced up briefly to acknowledge her appearance before resuming his work.

"We really must talk about Zoya."

"What is there to say, hmm? As you have so often said, she is not a child."

"No, but she has a child. Or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not." Francis put down his pen, sighing.

Kim assumed the seat opposite Francis at the desk, her eyes skimming across the headed letters.

"Surely you have noticed her attitude? The way she stomps about the house with an air of petulance?"

"Yes, my love. I am aware that Zoya is discomforted at present. I have tried to talk to her and will continue to do so, but even I cannot constrain her."

"I am not asking that…of course, she is your daughter."

"She is," Francis nodded, "but I thank you for your concern. I had hoped that in the years that have passed that you might find some…settlement between you. It appears I was wrong."

"You cannot win every battle, Frank." Kim wandered around the desk to him, cupping his face, "the atmosphere is so distracting here. Look at Christopher, two marriages and a child growing up to be a rebel with no occupation, or purpose. It cannot be good for any of us, especially for Jeanie." She sighed, "I love her dearly, but it seems so cruel to deceive her. If she were away at school…"

Francis' face hardened.

"I thought we had discussed this."

"We did, however I considered that you might have given it further thought?"

"And come to an alternative conclusion which would relinquish you of all responsibility to the child." Francis observed, "no, Kim. Jeanie will remain here."

"Francis…"

"I won't hear anything more, Kim. My decision is final. Jeanie stays. I will, however talk to Zoya."

Kim flounced to the door.

"I am glad I now know of your priorities." She opened the door.

"Kim."

"No, please, I shall see myself out, find something to occupy myself." Kim assured him. Francis threw down his pen, spurting ink across the documents.

"Damn!"

Kim kept her composure, remaining calm as she moved swiftly along the hall to the entrance to the servants quarters, seeking one servant in particular for comfort. Yet she could not bear to beleaguer herself with their gossip and retreated, noticing the very person she had sought out standing by the doors to the dining room.

"Foster, a word please?"

Foster allowed Lady Tate to pull him aside into the dining room, which was deserted.

"My Lady," he said, a smile playing across his lips.

"We have a problem," was all Lady Tate said.

"What is it?" Foster frowned at her expression.

"Joseph knows about us."

"What? How? That's impossible."

"Little Jeanie saw us embracing, apparently she confided in her odious cousin. No doubt he encouraged her."

"Has Joseph told Lord Francis?"

"Not yet, which means he and his father are probably plotting something."

"If it's just Jean's word..." said Foster slowly. "Surely that can be denied. She's an imaginative child."

"Francis may believe that, but Joseph won't. Nor will Christopher. They want me gone, as a threat to their inheritance..."

"Come now." Foster put his arms around her. "We must just be more careful in future, that's all."

"We mustn't be seen together at all until this problem is solved." Lady Tate pushed him away, standing with her arms folded. "I cannot afford to lose what I am owed."

"Perhaps I could talk to Joseph," Foster suggested. "He still has a certain fondness for me, from school..."

"You talk as if he had a heart," Lady Tate cried. "Talking to him would only give confirmation."

"Then what do you suggest?"

The lady thought for a moment. "If a little accident was to befall my grandson..."

Foster took a step back. "You wish me to murder Lord Joseph?"

"As you say, he's fond of you. You could go hunting with him, perhaps an unfortunate incident with a shotgun..."

"My Lady has gone mad."

"Not at all, my Graham," she purred. "It's simple logic. Lord Francis is not a well man, as you know. When he's gone I shall inherit all this - what's left when his miserable brats have received their share - and then we can live together openly, just you and me. And James," she added as an afterthought.

"And you would kill your own child's nephew to achieve that?"

"Joseph despises James. He is his father through and through. If he tells Francis about us, if he presents proof..."

"What proof could he present? The world of a child who still thinks Lord Francis is her father?"

"He won't stop until he gets further evidence! If Francis found out we would both be ruined. I would be on the street with no inheritance, you would be a nobody again..."

"We would still have each other." Foster ignored the stinging sensation at her choice of words.

"Sentiment doesn't supply food and clothing, Foster!" Lady Tate snapped. "I've been poor once and I won't go back there. If you are not prepared to take care of Joseph, then we would have to stay away from each other, until Lord Francis is gone..."

"I would sooner kill Lord Francis than Joseph."

The lady's eyes widened. "What an idea." She laughed softly. "Nevertheless, Francis must die of natural causes. Otherwise suspicion will fall on those closest to him. Nobody will question a simple hunting accident, with one as foolish as Joseph..."

"And if Joseph has already spoken to his father about this? Are we going to kill the Lord Christopher too?"

"Nobody would take the word of a grief-stricken father seriously. Christopher is unhinged at the best of times. Even Francis despises his own son."

"There must another solution..."

"There isn't." Lady Tate looked towards the closed door as if hearing a noise from there. Crossing the room, she opened the door and found Miss Windsor out in the hall, dusting the staircase bannister.

"What are you doing?" Lady Tate asked suspiciously."

"Just dusting, my lady." Miss Windsor's eyes widened innocently.

Lady Tate swept a finger along the bannister, leaving a trail in its wake. "Doing a terrible job, by the looks of it," she remarked. Foster appeared behind her, looking impassive.

Lady Tate turned to Foster. "We'll continue this conversation later, Foster."

"Yes, my lady." Foster returned to his duties. Miss Windsor watched him depart as she continued dusting.

"Do be careful on those stairs," Lady Tate warned Miss Windsor as she swept down the hallway.


	7. Propriety and Impropriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which breakfast leads to ructions...

Another week began, much as its previous counterparts did at Home Farm. The fires were lit to ease the early morning chill that swept through the house as the curtains were opened and the servants scuttled about urgently, determined to keep to the tight schedule organised by Mrs Blackstock and Foster.

Yet, Mrs Blackstock, whom had spent her previous employment as the manager of a boarding house, knew the importance of a regime and rota and never appeared flustered nor agitated.

"Belle, have you lit the fire yet in Her Ladyship's room?" She asked, consulting the rota as Belle sat at the servants table, tucking into bread and dripping.

"Yes, Mrs Blackstock." The girl returned in earnest. Of the three housemaids to attend the family, she was quite the fairest. Golden hair, however scandalously similar to Her Ladyship's, was swept up into a bun over which she wore a smart white cap with a lace trim. It was well known that Her Ladyship had a particular dislike for the Dingle girl, in comparison to Ceri Spencer and Liza Fowler, who at best were only passable as servants.

Ceri herself hailed from the uttermost Northern province of Newcastle, whereas Liza was a local girl and a favourite of The Earl's son, Christopher, whom she avoided at every opportunity.

He would never have dared to approach Ceri or Belle, by the restrictions of their class, but there was something alluring about Liza that the young heir valued and was often to be found ringing the bell for Liza exclusively.

"And where've you been, Ceri?" Demanded Mrs Blackstock as Ceri trudged in to the kitchen, spilling mud in her wake.

"Horse threw a shoe, din't it?" She grimaced, dark hair tumbling out of its messily placed cap as she leaned on a chair to slip off her outdoor boots. "Me an' our Dan 'ad to make ours way 'ere through t'fields. No easy feat, I tell yers."

"So I understand," Blackstock shook her head in astonishment. "Well, get yourself to the boot room, clean off that mud before Mr Foster sees you." She urged, gesturing to the boot room where Jacob Gallagher, the boot boy, was working.

Or shirking, as Foster termed it.

"Everything on time, Mrs Blackstock?" Foster strode into the kitchen and the entire staff stood to attention. They were conscious of his military profile and knew to respect his rank, at least in that regard.

"You may sit." He directed and they assumed their seats. "What is this, Mrs Blackstock?" His eyes honed in sharply on the mud that Ceri had trailed across the slate floor.

"Oh, that were from t'laundry baskets." Mrs Blackstock bluffed, "nothing of note."

Foster grunted by way of response.

"Then perhaps you might organise Amelia to remove this. I believe Her Ladyship will be making her inspection this morning. I should like her to see an immaculate household."

"Well, quite!" Agreed Mrs Blackstock with vigour.

"Aye, man, these boots, I tell yer..." Ceri emerged from the boot room and Foster raised his eyebrows, running his eyes over her ragged and dirty ensemble.

"Miss Spencer?"

"Aye, its Missus if yer must know." Ceri grumbled.

"Quite." Foster corrected, "can you kindly explain how you came to be in such a state of disarray?"

"Well, me an' our Dan, me 'usband, we're on our way 'ere in t'cart and t'horse throws a shoe, like. Chucks us off, it does. So 'e says, 'you go on ahead, can't be long afore someone finds us, eh?' So after a quibble, I says to 'im, 'if yers wait 'ere I can get 'elp from t'house."

Foster opened his mouth to interrupt but Ceri had become quite determined to finish her story, as amusing as it was for the other servants to observe.

"...so I ends up trottin' me way through t'fields, like, only I get lost. Place is grand, but enormous, like. So I 'as to ask Hammond and 'e says that yers are all in 'ere, so I comes in and I know I'm a bit...untidy, like, but I got 'ere, didnt I?"

Foster was quite simply flabbergasted by her admission and temporarily dazed.

"Well, that's understandable enough, Ceri," Blackstock offered, "however there is no sending you up to the family in this state."

"No, Mrs Blackstock is right. Melia will have to assume your place for the day, Mrs Spencer." Foster concurred.

"Aye, man, but she's fourteen years old!"

"Any more protestations like that will only add to your offence," Foster warned her, "you will be deducted two shillings for your tardiness and a further threepence for your insolence." He paused, "Mrs Blackstock, see that Mrs Spencer is correctly attired before inspection." A bell rang in the background, signalling the first tray to be brought to Lady Zoya. She was always the first to rise in the morning. It was something of an accolade for her.

Despite her liberal protestations on subjects of hunting and suchlike, she remained faithful to her class by observing the privileges.

Upstairs, in her room, she stretched elegantly and reached for the bell, tugging it gently.

"Three. Two. One." Belle muttered in the kitchen. The bells began to ring in sequence, prompting breakfasts to be abandoned in favour of service.

"Lady Zoya," Victoria confirmed to Effie, the unofficial Lady's Maid to Lady Zoya.

Effie seized the tray at once and bounded upstairs in her heavy footed fashion, coming to pause at Lady Zoya's door.

"Milady, your breakfast." She advised.

Zoya was already dressed, yet allowed her to bring in the tray.

"Thank you, Effie." She smiled warmly, taking a slice of toast from the plate and wandering over to the window. "Do you ever wonder what you would be doing if you weren't a servant?"

"I don't really, Milady. I suppose I would be a wife and mother. Find some nice young chap or other..." she blushed.

"Of course, as that is our natural function, is it not?" Zoya sighed, her tone filled with scorn.

"I do think it would be nice to have a little boy or girl, Milady." Effie confessed.

"Oh, yes." Zoya took a bite of toast.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady, for my impertinence, but I suppose Miss Jean is an ample example of how it would be."

"Indeed she is." Zoya looked out of the window, "and you are not impertinent, Effie. Just curious."

"Me mother always said it'd be t'ruin o'me." Effie chastised herself.

"Not at all." A melancholy look came over Zoya's face, as she began to think of her daughter, shut away in the nursery as she herself had been as a child. "I suppose I do myself little favour with my chosen ensemble." She gestured to her trousers and waistcoat over a silk blouse.

"I think it very fine, Milady."

"Yet hardly appropriate for a Lady. My father dislikes it immensely."

"I should not care for his opinion, Milady. You are modern, as I am." She stammered, "oh...not that I imply that we are equal, Milady! Far from it!"

Zoya chuckled.

"Oh, Effie, dear Effie, you worry yourself too much!" She assured her. "And we are indeed equals."

"Thank you." Effie's cheeks flushed, "I had better get back to t'kitchens."

"Yes and I shall attune myself to the task of choosing something more acceptable to wear." Zoya advised dully, opening the wardrobe behind her.

"Can I assist in any way, Milady?" Effie asked quickly, hesitating by the door.

"No, that will not be necessary, thank you, Effie. I can manage."

"As you wish, Milady." Effie bowed her head as she closed the door, leaving Zoya to contemplate the array of garments in her wardrobe. She openly despised the dresses that had become the fashion, but it was her only means of pacifying her father enough to ensure that he would listen to her.

With this in mind, she selected a rose pink silk blouse with charming soft sleeves and a slightly flared cotton navy skirt with a navy trim around the 'dropped' waist.

She gathered her long hair into a roll at the side of her head, securing it with a jewelled clip with a peacock feather and added rouge to her cheeks and a line of lipstick to enhance her definitive features.

Satisfied with her reflection, she left the room and trotted elegantly downstairs to the drawing room where the other members of the family were already assembled, proud and immaculate, with the exemption of Jean, who was no doubt still in the nursery, only being permitted to attend the table once Papa and Mama had breakfasted.

"What a charming outfit," Lady Tate remarked, eyes sparkling as Zoya entered the room, "I must commend Harrison on her choice. Such a beautifully feminine ensemble."

Zoya managed to keep the smile on her face, fully aware of the true meaning behind Lady Tate's compliment.

"Thank you." She replied graciously.

"I daresay you do scrub up well." Her brother commented, wheeling himself back to allow her to assume a seat alongside Lady Tate.

Zoya perched herself elegantly on the sofa, hands folded neatly, ankles tucked inwards, her back straight, determined to show her father that she was quite capable of being worthy of her title of Lady.

"And James is here!" Declared Lord Francis, thumping his youngest son enthusiastically on the back as he joined them.

"A moment whilst I indulge in this unique opportunity." Christopher muttered snidely, "Father's favourite and all."

"Don't be bitter, Christopher." Warned Lady Tate, with a smirk, "it quite cripples your face."

Christopher scowled at her.

"Good to see you, my boy." Francis ushered his son into the throng, "how was London?"

"As good as it can be, considering the circumstances. There are flutterings in the City, Father. The outlook is quite grim." James admitted sedately.

"Ha!" Christopher let out a dark laugh, "well done for another optimistic start to the day."

"Must you be so cruel to your brother, Christopher?"

"Anyone would think he was three, not twenty three." Christopher murmured.

"And when you behave like that I'm tempted to ring for Nanny and send you to bed without supper." His father advised.

"Jam sandwiches are a delicacy for disobedient children, I hear." Christopher retorted, turning his chair slightly.

"Humph!" Was his father's best response, "if you're referring to your young sister..."

"Good morning, Mother." James leant down to kiss his mother's powdery cheek, sweeping past Christopher.

"Don't mind me." Christopher grumbled, "and yes, Father, I do refer to her. It seems you have your priorities in order."

"Christopher, please don't." Zoya added starkly.

"Oh I am sorry," despite his admission, there was no hint of remorse, "dearest brother, I do beg your pardon." He bowed his head.

"I wondered if you and Joseph might like to review the figures later in the study."

"Capital idea!" Agreed Lord Francis.

"Hmm, I'll see what's in the diary."

"A visit to see Miss Glover, no doubt." Suggested Lady Tate with a tone unbecoming to morning conversation.

"Well anything's better than listening to the warblings of the prodigal daughter." Christopher replied coldly.

"Your sister has a fine voice and should not be teased thus." Lord Francis reprimanded his son.

"Oh please, Dad, do you honestly believe that anyone should care for the scandal? Its an open secret." He emphasised, "everyone knows that the little darling is the product of the chauffeur."

"Chris." Zoya spoke up, highly discomforted by the direction of the conversation.

"Sorry," he glanced at his sister, whose face was pained.

"Well, that's a lovely start to the day." Lady Tate shook her head, "no more of this nastiness."

Christopher met Zoya's eyes.

"Quite right, darling." Lord Tate patted Lady Tate's shoulder, standing behind the sofa, "it appears that we are famished and that is causing this ill temper." He rang a small bell upon the side table and Foster promptly appeared.

"Sir." He bowed.

"How long for breakfast?"

"I shall see to it immediately, My Lord." Foster advised.

"Thank you. It should not be long."

An awkward silence descended on the room, as the previous subject of conversation had been closed. A few dark looks were exchanged between Lord Tate, Christopher and Lady Tate, whilst Zoya and James remained silent.

Foster was most astonished to find the family in such an uncertain state upon his return. They seemed so detached from one another, as noble families often are, yet he couldn't help but notice the smirks on Christopher and Joseph's faces as though they had been instrumental in the forming of the situation.

"Breakfast is served, my Lord." Foster announced.

"Thank you." Lord Francis replied, "will you be joining us, Christopher?"

"Indeed I will. Wouldn't miss it." Christopher answered pompously.

His son admitted a guffaw and followed the family in single file to the adjoining room, upon which breakfast was set.

Needless to say, food was plentiful here. Bacon, eggs, two racks of golden toast, accompanied by butter and jam, kippers for Lord Francis and a charming tea service.

The family took their seats as Foster awaited further instruction. Lady Tate stole a glance several times toward Foster. He was a distinguished sort of man whom had caught her eye upon his arrival as the adopted valet of Joseph. His dark eyes were mysterious and his voice dangerously exciting. It was no wonder that she had taken a fancy to him.

Zoya sat in melancholy, uncertain of how the conversation might progress. Christopher might have apologised, but he was persistent all the same.

"Will there be anything else, my Lord?"

"The Courier, please, Foster." Lord Francis explained, transferring kippers to his plate.

"Of course."

"And The Sketch, if you please, Foster?" Lady Tate requested, her attention firmly on him.

"Yes, Milady." He offered a hint of a smile.

Upstairs in the nursery, Nicola was occupied in the nursery maid's sitting room adjoining the nursery itself where Jeanie was playing.

Nicola, exhausted from the previous restless night, during which Miss Jean had struggled to sleep, had settled herself in the chair by the window with some darning only to be overcome by drowsiness and had fallen asleep, her mouth hanging open, little snores slipping out.

Not that Jean noticed. She was too busy with her dolls.


	8. Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zoya makes a declaration...

"What sandwiches would Miss like, then?" Nicola asked, having settled Jean back at the little table in the nursery, poised as a waitress would in a restaurant to take her order.  
  
Jean made no response.  
  
"Miss?" Nicola prompted her, yet Jean's eyes remained glassy and dazed.  
  
She sighed and placed a hand on the little girl's; sitting down.  
  
"Papa is going to get better, isn't he?" She asked Nicola solemnly.  
  
"Of course he is, Miss. Your Papa's a very strong man. Ask anyone in the village!"  
  
"Mama never lets me go to the village." Jean replied dully, "Mr Fowler said I'm a disgrace."  
  
"Mr Fowler should learn to keep his mouth shut." Nicola defended her, "you're not to listen to them, do you understand?" She brought her eyes level with Jean, "so." She swayed a little, "Jam sandwiches for tea?"  
  
Jean nodded.  
  
"Will be right back." She tapped Jean's hand, smiling at her as she removed herself from the room.  
  
Along the corridor, a silhouette lurked in the shadows, stepping into the light and slipping across the corridor in haste to the nursery.  
  
Zoya entered the nursery, unbeknownst to Jean, who was kneeling in front of her dolls house with her back to her.  
  
She knew her daughter at once. Their contact had been limited to family gatherings due to their striking similarity in appearance. The same large, soulful eyes, the high cheekbones and the dark waved hair, although Jean's was cut short to her chin, giving her an almost elfin look.  
  
"Jeanie?" Her voice was gentle, soft. Jean gave a little gasp and shuffled around to face Zoya.  
  
"Hello, Zoya." She greeted her casually, "I'm having jam sandwiches. Mama sent me from the table."  
  
"Why did she do that?" Zoya crouched next to her daughter.  
  
"Papa is ill." Jean revealed, "he had his heart gasps again. Mama said it wasn't right for me to see it."  
  
"Well, no." Zoya admitted reasonably, looking away, "Its not nice to see Papa like that, but you're not to worry. Dr Cavanagh is doing his best, you know he is." She placed her arm around her daughter, kissing her head.  
  
"I love you, so much." Zoya murmured, "you know that, Jeanie?"  
  
"I do." Jean drawled, half concentrating on the arrangement of the furniture and the dolls in the house. "You are my sister. Sisters are meant to love one another, aren't they?"  
  
Her question hung, lingering, over Zoya. She was here torn between confession and deceit.  
  
"Miss Jean, I have your..." Nicola trailed off, re-entering the room with the tray, "Your Ladyship!"  
  
"Oh, don't bother with the full address, please, Kinsett." Zoya stood, brushing down her trousers and moved closet to Nicola.  
  
"But, my Lady, Her Ladyship gave us specific instructions pertaining to Miss Jean."  
  
"I am certain they did." Zoya replied crisply, nodding, "alas, they cannot sever what is always tied." She glanced to Jean and back to Nicola.  
  
"But, really, my Lady..."  
  
"Kinsett, whatever my Father or Kim may tell you, I have a right to see her."  
  
"I can only abide by what I am told." Nicola reasoned, "I am sorry, milady, but you will have to leave so that Miss Jean can have her dinner."  
  
Zoya looked over the tray with distaste.  
  
"Jam sandwiches."  
  
"A treat, Milady." Nicola clarified, trying to contain her offence.  
  
"Why was Jean dismissed from the table, Kinsett?" Zoya's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Her Ladyship summoned me by Mr Foster. His Lordship, your Father; he were apparently taken ill."  
  
"I see. Thus depriving Jean of a decent meal." She shook her head, "Thank you for your honesty, Kinsett. It is good to know I can depend on you."  
  
"Of course, milady." Nicola's face twisted into a puzzled expression as Zoya left the room, donning her robe before walking the length of the corridor to her brother's room.

A light in the gap of the door declared that the room was occupied and Zoya tapped politely on the polished wood.  
  
"What do you want, Zig?" Chris' voice came from within. Zoya stepped in and closed the door behind her.  
  
"I'm not going to make a habit of this."  
  
"I wasn't going to advise it." Chris grinned from his position by the desk. It was sometimes hard to believe, in light of his behaviour, that he was confined to a wheelchair. "What is it, Zig?"  
  
"I need your help, Christopher."  
  
"Its an improvement on Crispy." Chris admitted, "you know Dad banished Joseph from the table the other evening, sent for Foster to escort him out. All the while, the witch's son sits there claiming everything without a single word."  
  
"James isn't vicious." Zoya commented.  
  
"No, but he needs, gumption, something, anything to stop him from being the silent man." Chris scorned. "Anyway, you came to seek advice from your brother. It must be important."  
  
"It is." Zoya twisted her fingers, "I've just come from the nursery."  
  
Chris hung his head back.  
  
"Please tell me you didn't..."  
  
"No, I didn't. I know the consequences. I have been warned enough times by our Father. I wouldn't compromise us like that, Christopher."  
  
"I don't know why you involve yourself so much with her? Apart from the obvious of course. She is being brought up by the witch." Chris warned, pouring himself some whisky and offering the bottle at Zoya.  
  
"No, Christopher. Regardless of what anyone says, she is my daughter. She asked me if sisters are supposed to love each other and I told her yes."  
  
"Well, bravo to you. I don't see why I need to be involved in your little encounters."  
  
"I want her back," spluttered Zoya, suddenly, closing her eyes as though in pain, "I want my daughter back."  
  
"Zig..." Christopher rubbed his face in exasperation, "don't be absurd."  
  
"Absurd?"  
  
"As if the witch is ever going to allow that," he shook his head, almost scornfully.  
  
"Jean is my daughter." Zoya reminded him, "it has nothing to do with her."  
  
"You really want to do this, don't you?" Chris saw the determination in her face.  
  
"For Jeanie."  
  
Chris sighed.  
  
"I just found her, in the nursery, Kinsett was serving her jam sandwiches of all things."  
  
"Well, what do you expect Victoria to serve now, at this time of night?" Christopher scoffed, wheeling himself back.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Besides which, are you certain you want to shoulder the burden of our dear little 'sister'? She can be tiresome."  
  
"As I recall, so were you." Zoya retorted snippily, perching herself on a stool.  
  
"If you are certain, then I will help you, but if you intend to go to Father about this, can I suggest changing into something more..."  
  
Zoya tilted her head.  
  
"Suitable?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You disapprove too, don't you?" Zoya accused him.  
  
"Nothing to do with me." Christopher wheeled away; back to his sister.  
  
"Christopher." Zoya rounded on him, "please don't be like this."  
  
"I'm not being like anything. I'm just considering all options. If you are set on this..."  
  
"I am. She belongs with me."  
  
"Very well. Let's go and see the dinosaur in the morning." He checked his smart fob watch and scowled.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Fowler. Late again." Christopher grimaced bitterly.  
  
At that moment, Fowler opened the door and strode in, laying a pile of ironed garments upon the washstand.  
  
"Late again, I see." Christopher observed.  
  
"Begging your pardon, my Lord." He noticed Zoya, "Milady."  
  
"Fowler." Zoya nodded, "I trust you are well."  
  
"Thank you, Milady. I am, that."  
  
"Good. Well, I'll bid you goodnight, Christopher." She kissed his cheek and retired to her own room.  
  
Christopher waited until Zoya was out of sight before turning on Fowler.  
  
"Do you care for your position here, Fowler?" He asked sharply.  
  
"Of course my Lord." Fowler responded evenly, setting the ironed garnents into the drawer.  
  
"Such a noble thing, to be a servant. Not that I would know, of course." Christopher hid his displeasure through his snideness that seeped into his otherwise charming face like poison.  
  
"It is a noble thing."  
  
"I am glad you think so," sneered Christopher, as Fowler removed his dinner jacket. "Perhaps that will encourage you to take more responsibility instead of shirking your duties. I've no intention of listening to your pleas, Fowler. Do your duty, that is all I ask."  
  
"Yes, my Lord."


	9. Family Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tempers flare once again over the breakfast table.

Jeanie, having feasted on jam sandwiches the night before, declared that she was unable to stomach breakfast on the following morning and so it fell to Nicola, or rather, Kinsett as she was known, to relay the news to her Mama and Papa.  
  
They sat in the splendour of the drawing room, the sunlight beaming through the tall windows which also served as doors to the elegant terrace. Indeed, it seemed that all was right with the world. Lady Tate lounged on the sofa, her back straight in her tawny silk, the collar forming a V shape upon which was attached a faux-scarf. It contrasted with her golden hair, pinned into a side roll, with a delicate chain of amber beads draped around her neck, her legs tucked neatly at an angle as she read The Daily Sketch whilst Lord Tate stood by the writing desk, proud and stoic, examining some papers there.  
  
The door was shut to servants during the mornings, once all tasks had been completed and Nicola found herself unusually nervous as she prepared to enter the room, checking her hands and fingernails.  
  
"Enter." Lady Tate replied breezily, keeping her eyes on the Sketch.  
  
Nicola did so, stepping carefully upon the Persian carpet.  
  
"Kinsett." Lord Tate acknowledged her, turning fully to face her.  
  
"Sir. Milady." Nicola bobbed an awkward curtsey to them both in turn. Her lack of height only enhanced her discomfort. The uniform of her trade, a black dress with a white apron crossed at the back over each shoulder, was more suited to a young housemaid than a nursery maid, but Lady Tate had insisted upon it and since Nicola was in no position to challenge her, she accepted her place graciously.  
  
"Where is Miss Jean?"  
  
"That is what I come to tell you, sir. Miss Jean wishes to be excused from breakfast this morning as she feels rather full from her indulgence last night."  
  
"Indulgence?"  
  
"Of course, Francis, Kinsett kindly returned Jean to the nursery when you were taken ill." Kim reminded him promptly.  
  
"Yes, I remember." Francis nodded sombrely, "what did the child eat, Kinsett?"  
  
"Miss Sugden had barely minutes to spare, sir. She was returning home and alas could not prepare anything to her usual flair. Miss Jean ate jam sandwiches."  
  
"Jam sandwiches." Francis frowned, his brow creasing, "I see. No doubt she is suffering as a consequence."  
  
"Oh, I shouldn't say so, sir. She is quite content."  
  
"I shall be the judge of that, thank you, Kinsett." Francis strode out of the room.  
  
"Don't worry yourself too much," Kim remarked with a hint of amusement, "after all, its only Papa's little darling."

“Who's Papa's darling?" Joseph strolled in, immaculately attired, followed by his father. "Kinsett, I gather someone gave Jeanie jam sandwiches," he sucked in his breath, enhancing his cheekbones, "and now the darling little thing is poorly?"  
  
"That is true."  
  
"Well, you weren't to know." Joseph cast off carelessly, going to his step-grandmother to kiss her hand by way of a morning greeting, "Grandmother."  
  
"Joseph." She returned, coldly behind a false smile.  
  
"Where's Grandfather?"  
  
"Attending the poor creature in the nursery." Kim answered with little interest.

"Where's Foster?' Christopher demanded, "surely he should be here by now, with coffee?"  
  
"No?" Kim shook her head, pretending to concentrate on the _Sketch_. "Well, unless you're incapable of serving yourselves?"  
  
"God's sake! That's what we employ servants for!" Christopher lost his temper, wheeling himself to the cabinet where the coffee pot was set.  
  
"Temper, Christopher." Kim smirked to herself. She did so love to rile him.  
  
Christopher shot a glare in her direction as Zoya joined them, her chosen ensemble far more feminine than the previous day's. A long mutton sleeve blouse in a delicate pale blue, with an embroidered panel and pearls on the cuffs. She had combined it with a darker, burgundy skirt and pointed buckled chestnut coloured shoes.  
  
"Goodness me, what a difference." Kim put down her magazine.  
  
"Good morning," was Zoya's placid response. "How is Jean this morning? Kinsett mentioned she was ill."  
  
"Nothing to worry about," Kim assured her.  
  
"She ate too many jam sandwiches. How terribly scandalous!" Joseph mocked.  
  
"Kinsett, why don't you return to the nursery?" Kim suggested pointedly, "and perhaps you might find Foster for us?"  
  
Nicola bobbed a curtsey and took her leave.  
  
"Useless." Kim muttered.  
  
"As a mother or wife?" Queried Joseph, sitting down with his coffee.  
  
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Kim." Christopher added, enjoying the opportunity to humiliate her.  
  
"When you two have finished, I have something to say, about your father, Zoya, Christopher?"  
  
Christopher wheeled himself to the sofa.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I came across some documents in his study pertaining to his expenses. It appears that we must tighten our belts should we wish to remain on the estate." She advised them, putting on her best sympathetic expression. "Especially if we do not wish to cause him further distress."  
  
Christopher began to clap, mockingly, slowly.  
  
"Well done, Kim. Almost convincing. But we all know why you married our father."  
  
"Not now, please, Christopher." Zoya pleaded, putting her hand on his shoulder as though to restrain him.  
  
"No, share your concern, Christopher." Kim urged.  
  
Christopher's cold eyes fixed on her resolute ones.  
  
"My apologies, Your Ladyship, Milady, Sir." Foster interrupted them.  
  
"Yes, Foster?" Christopher demanded impatiently.  
  
"Christopher, you needn't be so hostile." Zoya paused, "what can we do for you, Foster?" She stood, addressing Foster directly.  
  
"On the contrary, Milady."  
  
"Have the breakfast things been arranged in the dining room?" Kim asked crisply.  
  
"Indeed so, Your Ladyship." Foster replied, "please, allow me."  
  
He opened the adjoining double doors into the dining room.  
  
"Thank you, Foster." Kim's eyes sparkled.  
  
Nicola returned, much to the astonishment of the family, her expression panicked.  
  
"What is it, Kinsett?" Kim demanded.  
  
"Please, it’s Miss Jean. She's missing!"  
  
"Missing?" Kim repeated, doubtful of the urgency, "nonsense, where her Papa goes, Jean shall follow."  
  
"You know that with certainty, do you?" Christopher remarked wryly.  
  
His son sniggered.  
  
"After all, she and James are the only important ones in this family."  
  
Kim scowled.  
  
"What do you propose, Kinsett?"  
  
"I...well..."  
  
Before she could answer, Frank opened one of the terrace doors, his hand in Jean's. Kim's face soured at the sight.  
  
"Ah, the Merry Wanderer returns." Joseph commented, "good morning, Jeanie!"  
  
Jeanie scuttled to the table to greet everyone in turn by kissing them on the cheek.  
  
"Are you prone to disturbing us with pointless interruptions, Kinsett?" Kim barked at Nicola.  
  
"No, Ma'am." Nicola replied meekly, catching Foster's eye, "I'll return to my work."  
  
"If you would be so kind." Kim kept her false smile. "Perhaps now we may eat."  
  
"Of course, Milady." Foster agreed, opening the dishes.  
  
"Wait for Jeanie to sit down." Francis instructed, patting the seat that had been placed to his left side, shafting Christopher along.  
  
His suggestion was met with a disapproving murmur.  
  
"I understood that you were poorly, darling." Kim stepped up into her mother role, looking at Jean.  
  
"I am much better now, thank you." Jeanie replied with dignity, offering a smile across the table.  
  
"Nothing that a pot of tea will not fix." Added Francis, "and perhaps later an excursion to Leeds?"  
  
"What on earth would you need to travel to Leeds for, Grandfather?" Joseph questioned, tucking into his eggs with vigour.  
  
"I was going to save this until this evening's dinner, however the little escapade this morning has reminded me of the prominence of it. I have decided to open offices in the city, supporting the estate, as a merchant."  
  
"A merchant, Papa?"  
  
"Indeed. The pace of the estate is steady, an advantage that I feel could be transferred into a sound investment."  
  
"Have you thought to consult anyone about this?" Christopher's voice was tight with rage.  
  
"How I choose to conduct the business of the estate is my affair, Christopher." Francis reminded him, "of course, I would welcome your contribution."  
  
"Contribution? Presumably James will be a consultant on this? The Golden Child?" He persisted.  
  
"Christopher."  
  
"Has it not occurred to you, Sir, that I have worked for you many a year?"  
  
"You needn't address me as Sir, Christopher."  
  
"What difference does it make, really, Father? You will go about the business as you see fit. All the while dragging us into the mire."  
  
"And you, I deduce, are jealous of the attention that your brother receives?"  
  
"Half brother." Corrected Christopher, "how you choose to conduct yourself is no concern of mine. I am merely considering the business."  
  
"No, you are thinking of yourself." Francis retorted, "yourself and Joseph."  
  
"Leave my son out of this quarrel." Christopher told him darkly.  
  
"Indeed. I shall. You have proven yourself to be exactly as I feared. I would now be grateful if you would leave the table and allow us to continue with our breakfast in peace."  
  
"It will be my great pleasure." Christopher returned sarcastically, amid a worried look from Zoya as her brother left the room, his wheels spinning across the floor.


	10. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Christopher encounters an old friend in the village.

It was a fine day, of that anyone could be certain. Despite the season, the blooms had started to blossom, allowing a hint of colour amid the dreary grey of what seemed to be an endless stream of frost ridden days. Nowhere was this more pertinent than in the village itself, where garlands of pink were twisted around gates or gently floating from the large tree at the centre of the square.  
  
"Hello, Katherine." Christopher wheeled his chair up to the local lady. She was one of the aspirational, yet not grasping social set of the village, which included Margaret "Megan" Macey, the village parish secretary, Miss Harriet Finch, the missionary, who hoped one day to become a fully fledged vicar, Betty Eagleton and Mrs Pearl Ladderbanks, whom were termed as the local gossips. Despite her social position, Miss Katherine was neither snobbish nor conceited in any form; she was gentle and kind. Likened to Lady Tate in appearance, with blonde hair and blue eyes, she was beauty personified by the local male estimation. Her pale blue ensemble and plaid dress coat complimented her thoroughly, especially her fine new wide brimmed hat with the oyster pink trim.  
  
"Mr Tate," replied Kathy evenly.  
  
"Why the formality? We were engaged to be wed once..." Christopher began, his eyes fixed on her, enjoying the moment.  
  
"Until your indiscretion with poor young Rachel Hughes."  
  
"Years ago, Kathy. How long can you hold this grudge?"  
  
"It's hard not to when the evidence is still walking around the village." Kathy cast an inadvertent glance at Chris's wooden contraption.  
  
"I thought you were fond of young Joseph?"  
  
"I am, Christopher, but that doesn't lessen your betrayal, or my humiliation."  
  
"No," Christopher acknowledged. "Still, you were always the one for me."  
  
"I hear Charity Dingle is the one for you lately."  
  
"A mere business arrangement. Miss Dingle's services are on sale to the highest bidder. I believe even my sister has partaken." Chris enjoyed Kathy's shocked expression.  
  
"You would slander your own sister?"  
  
"It's only slander if it's a falsehood. The whole village knows that my sister was impregnated by her chauffeur before deciding she preferred the company of women."  
  
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Kathy primly.  
  
"You must have heard the rumours of Jean's real parentage?"  
  
"I don't listen to gossip."  
  
"Just as well. Gossip has it that you are lately seen in the company of the servant Fowler."  
  
"Ahh, so that's why you approached me." Kathy smiled, shaking her head.  
  
"Surely you wouldn't lower yourself to consort with a lowly valet?"  
  
"Brian Fowler is a good man, unlike you and your father."  
  
In spite of his own resentment towards Lord Francis, Christopher felt a surge of anger. "Leave my father out of this."  
  
"Very well. Speaking of gossip, rumour has it that Miss Dingle has also borne your child."  
  
Christopher thought of Charity Dingle's middle son, a blond teenage boy with Joseph's eyes. "Which of her offspring am I meant to have fathered?"  
  
"You're a disgrace," Kathy snapped. "Always in your father's shadow... a real man would stand up to him. I thank the lord I never married into your family."  
  
"As you wish." Christopher gave an ironic gesture to allow the lady to move past his chair. Once she had walked away, his face darkened.  
  
"Was that Miss Katherine?" Biff came to his side.  
  
"Don't push your luck, Fowler." Christopher returned sourly, giving him a snooty look.  
  
"His Lordship has advised that he is ready to return to the house."  
  
"Excellent, so that he may spend the afternoon indulging the child further." Christopher muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.


	11. Penhaligon

_Penhaligon School, 1925_  
  
"That's it, gentlemen! Never forget your years within these hallowed halls. The skills you have learnt, the pride in your school. Always remember, you are a Haligon and so it shall be." The headmaster declared as he beheld the sight before him. Boys, whom had become men in just five short years.  
  
They sat, silent, in their tailored suits, awaiting dismissal from the school they had come to know as home, for the last time.  
  
The finality struck like a lightning bolt as they assembled outside the grand doors, the corridors filled with chatter.  
  
One such boy was Joseph Tate. Although far from the richest, he was recognisable as a student of notoriety, despite the efforts of the school groundskeeper to keep him in line.  
  
It was not that Joseoh himself held any disregard for authority, he simply hated to be told what to do.  
  
Yet Joseph was aware that his father had no intention of engaging a valet for him and so sought to employ his own. The groundskeeper, to whom he had become familiar, seemed the most likely candidate.  
  
"Will that be everything, sir?" Carruthers, a second form boy planted the last of Joseph's cases at his feet.  
  
"Quite, Carruthers." He handed him a penny, "I don't suppose you've seen Foster by any chance, have you?"  
  
"He's sweeping the steps, sir." Carruthers informed him.  
  
"Fetch him for me, would you?" Joseph instructed, enjoying the authority over the younger boy. It did not seem long since he himself had tagged the older boys, never dreaming that one day he would be able to instruct and order like them.  
  
Carruthers scuttled off, hurrying across the grounds amid cries of "stop running, boy!" from the Masters' windows.  
  
At last he found the gentleman to whom Joseph had referred. He was sweeping the steps upon the entrance to Tulse Wing and came to a halt there at the sight of the boy.  
  
"Mister?"  
  
"What is it, lad?" Foster asked gruffly.  
  
"Mr Tate wants you, sir."  
  
Foster gripped the broom.  
  
"Did he give any reason?"  
  
"No, sir, but they're all leaving now, you'd best come quickly!" Carruthers urged.  
  
"Oh." Foster followed the boy back through the school to the entrance hall, which had lessened considerably in popularity in comparison to Carruthers' previous visit.  
  
"Mr Tate!" He called out and Joseph turned around, attired in his smart straw boater and tailcoat.  
  
"Thank you Carruthers." He added, handing him some coins, "Mr Foster."  
  
"Mr Tate."  
  
"I have been advised that our butler has been taken unexpectedly ill." Joseph explained, "my family and I have urgent need of a butler and considering your ability of running the grounds here..."  
  
"You would wish me to apply for the position?"

And so it was, that Joseph returned home, aided by his adopted valet and made a hasty declaration that Foster would quite happily assume the role of Butler to the household.  
  
Joseph's father, impressed by his resourcefulness and cunning, agreed to support his son in the engagement of Foster as an employee to the house.  
  
"Well, it has to be better than spending weeks interviewing sub standard applicants, doesn't it, Father?" Christopher reasoned as they sat in the study with Joseph and James, discussing the details.  
  
"Do we need a butler?"  
  
"Of course we do, Father. All of the houses of rank have them."  
  
"And he is very capable." Added Joseph.  
  
"Besides, it will show how far we have come." Christopher declared, knowing that his father would be unlikely to refuse the opportunity to boast of his achievement.  
  
"I suppose that is true." Francis considered, "very well. The decision is made. Foster may stay."  
  
He filled each whisky glass with the amber liquid and held it up.  
  
"To the Tate empire."  
  
"To family." James exclaimed, clinking his glass.


	12. Preparations

The day of the grand party dawned in a haze of weary sunshine pinching grey clouds.  
  
The servants scuttled about downstairs, making the final preparations as caterers and artistes arrived, closely observed by Foster.  
  
The wine cellar was opened, the bottles arranged decoratively on the servants’ table for Foster's perusal. Yet watching from nearby, Miss Windsor could sense his discomfort as he approached.  
  
"Everythin' goin to plan." Mrs Blackstock informed him with a warm smile.  
  
"The servants are prepared?" Foster's hand hesitated over the bottle caps.  
  
"They are. They know their duty. I daresay Her Ladyship will want to see them before they go up this evening?"  
  
"I have no doubt she will. Thank you, Mrs Blackstock." He added pertinently.

"Its alrigh' f'them, in't it? Pushin' me off in favour o'caterers!" Victoria muttered as she placed the trimmings on the canapes.  
  
"Ey, come on now," Mrs Blackstock soothed, "it’s nowt personal, I'm sure. But you know what these posh'uns are like..."  
  
Victoria nodded meekly.  
  
"I do."  
  
"Anyway, His Lordship has mentioned that you and Miss Windsor are to serve upstairs tonight."  
  
"What about Mrs Spencer? Miss Glover?"  
  
"They'll be doing theirs, too." Blackstock explained, "His Lordship would also like to see you this afternoon before the party begins."  
  
At that moment a uniformed driver arrived with a huge box.  
  
"Delivery for Lady Zoya?'  
  
"I'll take it!" Effie volunteered, grabbing the box, her smile dimming somewhat at the label. It wasn't for Zoya at all. It was for Jean.  
  
"That'll be Miss Jean's party frock. All the way from London, I hear." Blackstock shook her head. "Only t'finest for the little 'un."  
  
She called to Jacob.  
  
"Jacob, run this up to the Nursery, would you?"  
  
Jacob dropped the picker he was holding and took the box from a despondent Effie, "yes, Mrs Blackstock."  
  
"Good lad. I'll be sure to tell Mr Foster."  
  
Jacob sprinted off up the back staircase.  
  
"Where is Foster?" Victoria looked about the kitchen.  
  
"Well, he were here earlier?" Mrs Blackstock looked confused.  
  
"Not here now." Victoria put in, the tension relieved somewhat by Foster's absence.  
  
"Kelly, have you seen Mr Foster?"  
  
Kelly put on a convincing poker face.  
  
"Not since this morning, Mrs Blackstock." She came over to the table, "but he did look a bit... dark if I may say so."  
  
"Dark?"  
  
"Moody? You know how he gets." Kelly emphasised, but her backhanded remarks were lost upon Blackstock.

"Is there any reason why you have a button missing from your dress, or is it pure slovenliness?" Mrs Blackstock pointed at the offending neckline.  
  
Kelly's eyes fell to her neck.  
  
"Um, yes, Mrs Blackstock. Sorry. I thought it wouldn't be noticed, what with me wearing a proper dress tonight."  
  
"You will still be serving the family. Don't forget your place, now Kelly."  
  
"I won't." She promised, a crafty look in her eye.  
  
"I should hope not." Blackstock turned to Amelia, who was scuttling about the kitchen, tidying it as best as she could, "Melia, you might be needed for service tonight. Go and sort out your best dress and come back here. If you see Mr Foster, tell him I need to speak with him urgently."  
  
Amelia nodded quickly and dashed upstairs, following in Jacob's footsteps along the main corridor.  
  
"There's no question of it," Lord Francis grumbled as he paced the floor of his room, facing his wife, "we cannot afford to keep them all."  
  
"Sharma is a loyal maid to me," Lady Tate told him as Amelia caught a glimpse of her in her finery.  
  
"That may be so, but you heard James. We cannot continue to live as we have been doing. There are jitters in the stocks."  
  
"Don't be absurd, Francis." Lady Tate consoled him with her wiles, "you and I know that nothing can befall us that would damage our finances or position. Those are rumours, nothing more than whispers." She took his hand, "Francis, you shall enjoy this party tonight. It is a chance for us to show the world what the name of Tate stands for. You have worked tirelessly for this and now is the time to bask in the glory. " She paused, "and you wouldn't want to let Jeanie down, would you?"  
  
Lord Francis perked up at once.  
  
"No, certainly not." He conceded, "I know you think I spoil her so, but..."  
  
"I know. It is the guilt that you could not protect Zoya from her fate."  
  
"Christopher and I have been talking."  
  
"Oh yes?" Lady Tate tilted her head in half interest.  
  
"He has confided that Zoya feels deeply unhappy about the deception. That she would like to spend some time with Jeanie."  
  
"That wasn't the arrangement we agreed?" Lady Tate's tone took on a darker edge.  
  
"No, admittedly so, but Kim, Zoya deserves a chance to bond with the girl. I cannot deny her that." Francis admitted sadly.  
  
"And what about me? The woman she calls Mama?" Kim challenged, "am I to be cast out like an unwanted toy? Have I not raised her as my own? Treated her with all due care and affection?"  
  
"Of course you have." Francis gripped her hand, his expression softening at her melancholy, vulnerable look.  
  
"And yet still, I am no substitute for her mother. The mother who had no intention of keeping her. Would have abandoned her to grow up in an orphanage." Tears sparkled in her eyes, "I believe you have made your position clear, Francis."  
  
"Kim..."  
  
"No, I quite accept my resignation to the responsibility. What are ten years, after all?"  
  
Francis made to follow her as she fled, but thought better of it. There was no pacifying Kim in that state. Yet he could not dismiss the thought from his mind that perhaps Jeanie was better off knowing the truth.  
  
Kim waited until she was safely secluded in her room before casually assuming her seat at the dressing table, taking out a compact and calmly drawing a red line upon her lips, filling the shape to the corners and shading with a further roll of lipstick.

Effie, seeing that Blackstock was safely occupied, hurried up the staircase to Zoya's room, where she found her mistress sitting on the stool, checking her reflection in the mirror.  
  
A large box lay open on the bed and Effie caught a glimpse of black silk embroidered with miniature lillies.  
  
"Don't loiter in the doorway, Effie." Zoya caught her in the mirror, "come in."  
  
"Milady." Effie bobbed an awkward curtsey as she entered the room. "Would you like some help?" She noticed that Zoya was tying her dark hair in tight braids.  
  
"No, no, I can manage, thank you, Effie. If you could find my silk stockings, however, that would be appreciated."  
  
Effie nodded and went to the chest of drawers, selecting the silk stockings and laying them delicately next to the box.  
  
"You like it, Effie?" Queried Zoya, noticing Effie's soft expression as she beheld the dress. It was strikingly modern in style, with bare shoulders adorned with white and black embroidery and an attachment of black roses.  
  
"Oh yes, Milady. Very much so." Effie gushed.  
  
"I don't think my father will approve," admitted Zoya, testing a necklace against her bodice.  
  
"My father never approved of me." Effie murmured.  
  
"Oh, I am sorry." Zoya sighed sympathetically, "Effie, I sense that you and I have a shared understanding, so should you need to confide in anyone, it can be me." She offered a warm smile.  
  
"Thank you Milady, but I couldn't impose." Effie ducked her head away, embarrassed.  
  
"Nonsense." Zoya rolled out the drawer beside her.  
  
"Shall I fetch the curling iron, Milady?"  
  
"You won't need to." Zoya flashed a smile at the mirror, "the final transformation to modernity."  
  
Effie simply stared, enraptured. Was it possible that there was any fairer lady than her own mistress?

Down the corridor, Jacob delivered the parcel obediently to the nursery.

Jeanie had sat up at once upon seeing him and dashed to receive the gift, snatching the box before Nicola had even had the chance to act.

"What is this?" She queried to Jacob.

"Dunno. Mrs Blackstock just said to bring it up 'ere."

"No doubt His Lordship has arranged this, Jean." She patted the girl's shoulder fondly, "take it into my sitting room and we shall look at it together."

Jeanie skipped off with the box clutched to her chest.

"Best get back before Mrs Blackstock starts screaming." Jacob offered by way of parting conversation.

"Yes." Nicola's eyes swivelled to the sitting room and she leaned in toward Jacob, "have you heard owt about Lady Tate on your rounds?"

"Lady Tate? No. But Mrs Blackstock's looking for Foster."

"Is she? Why?"

"Hasn't seen him in a while."

Nicola's mouth twisted in satisfaction.

"Well, as you say, mustn't stand here gossiping." Nicola retreated to the sitting room where Jean had ripped open the box, the contents of which were splayed everywhere.

"What on earth, Miss?" Nicola took a seat in the chair and peered at the array of garments.

"It’s for me. From Mama." Jean clarified, holding the soft lilac dress up against herself. It had a beautiful soft draped skirt with a blush pink dropped waistband and a set of pink rosebuds embellished on the right shoulder. There was also a pair of pale pink silk stockings, burgundy velvet shoes and a hair adornment that matched the dress.

"Goodness me." Nicola was quite taken aback at the exquisite composition of the garments, so sophisticated for a ten year old child.

"Please may I wear them?" Jean asked hopefully, her eyes twinkling.

"Well, they're not much use in a box, are they, Miss?" Nicola grinned, "I daresay your Mama ordered them especially for the occasion. Of course you may wear them."

Jean clasped the dress to her.

"I shall look just like my sister!"

"Yes, you shall." Nicola agreed, setting the garments out upon the bed.

“Mr Gallagher, a word, if you please." Foster stopped Jacob as he made his way to the back staircase, preparing to resume his duties as boot boy.

Jacob gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat.

"Sir?"

"You are aware of course, that any fallaciousness on yours or Miss Kinsett's part will only result in severe consequences?" He warned, his dark brows knitting together in an intimidating frown.

"I don't know what yer mean, sir?"

"You were talking about your mistress with another servant."

"My mistress?"

"Lady Tate is the wife of Lord Tate, I would suggest that you mind your conversation in future should you wish to remain here."

"I will." Jacob nodded.

"And now perhaps you will advise me on the subject of your conversation."

"Mrs Blackstock is looking for you, sir." Jacob explained.

"I see. Well, there is a lot to do before the guests arrive. You have been given your instructions, mark them to the letter."

"Yes, I will do, sir. Miss Spencer," he noted Amelia lurking in the shadows, "I would make yourself known to me before I drag you out of the cupboard."

Amelia shuffled out of the laundry cupboard and stood before Foster, as he looked over them both.

"I expect the highest standards of service in this house, I expect respect for rank and I expect you to carry out your duties in a manner befitting to the status of your master. That does not involve gossiping in corridors with your fellow servants, lurking in laundry cupboards unless you have been specifically charged to do so, or slacking. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir." They bowed their heads reverently.

"Good. Miss Spencer, do you have reason to be up here?"

"Mrs Blackstock is looking for you."

"As I understand from Mr Gallagher," Foster paused, glancing at him, "you may return to your duties, Mr Gallagher."

Jacob took his leave, offering a kind smile to Amelia as he descended the back staircase. She remained, staring up at Foster, her eyes blinking furiously.

"I meant no harm, sir."

"I have no doubt. However I would advise against lurking in cupboards where you have no place to be. Service is based on trust, Miss Spencer. You shouldn't like your mistress or master to question your integrity, would you?"

"No, sir."

"I am glad to hear it." Foster's voice softened, "I shall speak with Mrs Blackstock directly." He nodded, dismissing her.

However, whatever his intentions may have claimed to be, Foster was drawn away from duty by the sudden appearance of Miss Windsor from Joseph's room.

"You're doing well, I must say." Joseph smiled at her appreciatively.

"Glad to be of service, my Lord."

"You are too kind." He observed her, "I shall no doubt see you at the party."

"You shall." Kelly twirled and swept away with easy confidence unbecoming to a servant.

The grandfather clock in the hall sounded the hour, prompting a rush of feet below and final touches to be applied upstairs.

In the nursery, Nicola slipped Jean's dainty stockinged feet into her new velvet shoes, smoothing out the shoulders of the girl's dress and brushed her hair until it shimmered.

"You look quite beautiful, Miss." Nicola commented, leading her to the mirror.

"Thank you, Kinsett." Jean answered, tapping her chin with her fingers as she looked at her reflection.

"Oh, of course!" Nicola added the jewelled clip to Jean's hair and brushed off the back of the dress. "You are ready, Miss."

"I think so."

"And who is this lovely young lady I see before me?" Francis entered the nursery, startling Nicola. He was in his finest suit, perfectly tailored to his frame. "It cannot be Jeanie!"

"Papa!" She rushed at him and he picked her up.

"How are you doing, little champion?" He kissed her cheek.

"Very good, Papa! I am very excited for this party!"

"I'm very glad to hear that, Little Champion," Francis admitted, "I could do with some assistance from you tonight with all those people. Will you help Papa, little champion?"

"Of course, Papa."

"Thank you." He squeezed her hand affectionately and planted a kiss there on the back of her hand before setting her down on the carpet.

"I thought your mother said that you were wearing navy?" He frowned.

"No, Mama ordered this."

"How strange?" Francis mused, "well, you shall be quite the belle tonight. Such lovely embroidery. Your mother has chosen well. No doubt she had second thoughts and forgot to tell me."

"Kinsett agrees that I shall look like my sister!" She exclaimed.

"Did she? Well, she is quite right." He gave Nicola an intrigued look.

"The parcel arrived sir, I presumed that it was ordered by Lady Tate."

"And so it was." Francis bluffed, "now, Kinsett, can you bring Jeanie downstairs directly at the first bell?"

"Yes, sir."

...

With the rest of the house occupied with party preparations, it provided the perfect chance for Lady Tate to slip away and find Foster, who was polishing the silverware in the dining room.  
  
"Graham," she purred. "Have you thought any more about my request?"

"Not here, Milady, hmm?" He responded in his usual manner, eyes fixed on the windows where beyond, Joseph and Jeanie played cricket.

"Oh good shot, Jeanie!" Joseph called.

"Graham!" Kim laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I have given it some thought, yes."

"And?"

"I cannot agree to it."

"Is it sentiment that prevents you?" Kim's eyes strayed to Joseph through the window.

"That, and common decency."

"So you are prepared to end our affair?" Kim demanded.

"I will not murder Lord Joseph."

"Surely he cannot mean more to you than me?" she asked tearfully.

Foster turned to her.

"It is not a question of love, or affection." Foster responded, "you know my heart belongs to you always."

"Unfortunately that does not prove your loyalty. Tis a pity. I hoped that we had an understanding," she stroked his arm, "you would deny me the same as my husband."

"There is another way," he stated. "We can still be together, if we leave together."

"Leave?" she repeated, moving away.

"Tonight, while all are busy at the party. We could take some of this," he gestured to the silverware, "and run."

Kim sniffed, her smirk slowly returning.

"Well, well, I am surprised at you, Foster. Such a suggestion! Why, you would think that we were nothing more than common peasants... and you being a military man?"

"You disapprove?"

"Oh no, I love a good scandal!" Gushed Kim, running her fingers across his chest, "shall we give them something to talk about?" Her voice was filled with lust.

"I just want us to be together."

"And you ask me to leave everything behind for you? What about James, and Jeanie?"

"James is an adult now, and Jeanie..." Foster hesitated. "Zoya will look after her."

"And this estate? Everything that I am entitled to?" Kim looked around her. "Am I not worth more than a few pieces of silver?"

"Well, we can hardly take the whole house," Foster's lip curled, "be reasonable, Kim."

"But a few pieces won't get us far, surely you can see that? This estate should be mine."

"And until it is, we have to be practical. Think sensibly."

"Live as skivvies you mean? Ha?" She scoffed, drawing away from him, "I think not."

The portrait of Francis bore down on them, his eyes proud and stern.

"We only need enough to survive. As long as we have each other..."

"And if I say no? If I refuse to leave with you?"

"That is your choice, of course." Graham's jaw tightened. "I would resign my position."

"On the basis of what, Graham? You have no family to claim for, no other occupation."

"I shall plea respite." Foster informed her, his head bowed, "it is well known within the army that exposure to certain situations can trigger... ailments that require recuperation."

"I see and you intend to tell all this to my husband? He is already suspicious, Graham." She bluffed. "I cannot lose everything because of your folly."

"Certainly I will not tell Lord Francis," Foster answered.

"Please, Graham... you can't leave me." Kim sniffed. "Joseph is all that stands in the way of our happiness..."

"I intend to leave tonight." Foster's eyes bored into hers. "You may come with me, or stay."

"Then I shall stay and find a man willing enough to complete the task at hand. Have I not devoted myself to you, ensured that you are treated well, given privileges?"

"What you are asking, is beyond my morality."

"Morality? Oh, you'll forgive me if I question that, given the circumstances of your vice?"

Graham scowled.

"Do you not care enough for me? What is the boy to you? You are an employee of this house. His employee. As you are mine. You are not meant to question my instruction, but carry it out to the letter."

"Even murder? Of your son's nephew? A boy that I..." Graham trailed off.

"What?" Kim pounced on his hesitation.

"That I watched grow up," he said stiffly. "After losing my own child..."

"Yes, a tragic thing," Kim acknowledged, with dignity, "however Joseph is not a child, he is a man, a man so much like his father, his presence here could only lead to more harm than good. He is spoiled, Graham. As a child he barely had to open his mouth before the nursemaid came running. A filthy little wretch too, I recall."

She paused.

"Has he ever shown gratitude to you for your efforts? Praised you? Rewarded you as I have on countless occasions?" She slithered her words over his shoulder, her voice lowered. It was her only chance to secure him before he lost his nerve.

"Perhaps not, but I know he sees me as a father figure." Graham refuses to be swayed by her seductiveness. "To kill him would be unthinkable."

"And when he tells Lord Francis about us, which he will, whether you are here are not... I shall be cast out on the streets!"

"You shall have plenty in comparison to those in the village. Your husband has recently reviewed the tenancies on their cottages, I am told he intends to increase the rent by a further few shillings."

"And you would see me in the same position?"

"No. However I have made my proposal." Foster advised, clearing away the silver, "I shall be waiting, should you wish to elope."

Lady Tate watched the butler depart with the silverware still in his hands. Her manipulations had failed her. She knew it was only a matter of time before Joseph stopped toying with her and told Francis or his father about her affair - if he hadn't told Chris already. She would soon be ruined.

The time for drastic measures had come.

Upstairs, Zoya put down her brush and surveyed herself in the mirror, her mouth stretching to a smile.

"What do you think?" She asked of Effie, who stood in awe at her mistress's brazenness.

"It is the height of fashion, Milady. Truly."

"I daresay my father will disapprove." She glanced at the shorn braids lying on the dresser.

"I think it suitably chic, Milady. Combined with the dress, why you might be on a fashion plate!"

"Oh, I shall never be that," Zoya grinned, adjusting the buckle on one of her satin shoes, "but I thank you," she placed her hand on Effie's arm, "Effie, you know I..."

Effie looked into her eyes.

"You have a party to attend, Milady." She stepped back dutifully.

"Quite." Zoya straightened herself in front of the mirror, curling her new bob inwards at the tips and smiled.

"You'll astonish them." Effie offered supportively.

"Thank you, Effie."

Zoya took her dainty pearl trimmed bag and went downstairs to the saloon. As she descended the stairs, she saw Fowler steal across the hall from the servants’ stairwell, heading for the music room.

"Strange." She murmured.

Liza Glover emerged from the servants’ stairwell a few minutes later. Zoya smiled, guessing what was going on, then turned and walked into the dining room, where Christoper was going through the family silver.

"What on earth are you doing, Christopher?"

"Zig? What on earth are you wearing..." He stared at her, as though dumbstruck. "I’m counting the silver. There appears to be a few pieces amiss."

"It is barely a few minutes before we host some of the most well to do in the county and you are concerned with the amount of silver in our possession?"

"This isn't vanity, Zig. The pieces missing are valuable. The silver tray from Otley."

"Mother's wedding gift." Zoya swallowed.

"Precisely, amongst other things."

"Well surely, Foster has taken them for cleaning? You know how particular he is?" Zoya suggested.

"I'll ask him." Before Zoya could stop him Chris reached for the bell and signalled for Foster to attend.

"Can I be of assistance, my Lord?" the butler asked, looking from Chris to Zoya.

"We appear to have mislaid some pieces of silver, Foster," said Zoya kindly. "Some with sentimental value. Are they being cleaned, perhaps?"

"Not to my knowledge." Foster responded smoothly, without hesitation, "I accounted for all in the inventory this morning." He saw Christopher's eyes glance at his sister. "Is there anything else, my Lady?"

"No, that is all." Zoya replied, "perhaps you could open the house now, Foster?"

"Of course." Foster's gaze remained on Christopher as he left.

"He knows something." Christopher muttered.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Chris. What could he know? No doubt one of the servants has misplaced the pieces? They may even be on the serving dresser?"

"Fowler," said Christopher after a moment's pause. "He has been persistently late recently, and was on the verge of being dismissed. He must have the pieces."

"Don't be ridiculous, Christopher," said Zoya wearily. "I know you don't like him but..."

"But nothing, he has a wedding to pay for to dear little Liza." Christopher sneered, his handsome face twisting snootily. "What better way to fund it than through us?"

"Liza would never allow it." Zoya defended. "She would put a stop to it."

"Of course she would." Christopher scorned, "because all servants are devoted saints, aren't they?"

"Let us ask all the servants if they know anything—"

"Is there a problem?" Their father had entered, already dressed for the party.

"We have a thief, Father," Christopher announced, as Zoya sighed and put her face in her hands.

"A thief? What are you talking about? This is not the time for this, Christopher!"

"There are pieces missing from the silver cabinet." Christopher continued.

"And there are guests out here waiting to be attended!" Francis retorted, gesturing, with a sigh, "priorities, Christopher, please. I will deal with the matter in the morning. For now, no more talk of this nonsense."

He barely noticed Zoya, who had hidden herself in the dimness of the corner.

"I believe Fowler is responsible," Christopher insisted. "We should deal with him immediately."

"There's no proof," snapped Zoya.

"I see, well let's ask him, shall we?" Lord Francis stepped into the hall. Christopher and Zoya could hear muffled voices as their father asked one of the other servants to summon Fowler. Francis returned to the room as the siblings exchanged wordless glances. Five minutes later Fowler entered, looking puzzled.

"Can I 'elp yer, my Lord?" He asked in his brusque manner.

"Just a misunderstanding, Fowler." Zoya attempted to assure him.

"Oh, come on, now, Zoya, no need for politeness. Fowler barely understands manners." Christopher drawled, "what do you know about our family silver, Fowler?"

"If you'll excuse me, I must check on Jeanie." Zoya slipped out of the room before her father could notice her ensemble.

"Family silver?" Fowler repeated. "I've no idea about your silver."

"You work in this house, you observe the changing of the rooms, the arrangement of dining service... it’s your job to know, Fowler. Don't try to fool me." Christopher warned.

"I'm not, I just don't know owt about t'silver? It’s Foster what checks it, not me!"

"Oh I'd say it’s got 'owt' to do with you, Fowler. You have a wedding coming up, do you not?"

"Christopher." His father growled in the background.

"So that's what this is about? You're jealous of me and Liza?" Fowler drew himself up.

"Kindly refrain from speaking to my son like that," said Francis quietly.

"He can't help himself, Dad," said Christopher maliciously. "A thief with no respect for his betters..."

Fowler seized him by the collar.

"I've waited so long for this, after what you did to Liza, after all you put us through, me, scrimping and scraping for you. Practically licking your boots..."

"Where you belong." Christopher added, unwisely.

"Make you feel like a big man, does it? Holding court from a chair?" Fowler's scowl intensified, his eyes fiery.

"That's enough! Fowler, let him go." Francis instructed.

Christopher pushed Fowler off him, his eyes triumphant.

"I think your employment here is at an end. Liza can stay, of course. I'm sure she'd miss my company."

"You—"

"Enough," Francis instructed. "Fowler, go and collect your things. I'll have your wages sent on."

"Goodbye, Fowler. I wish I could offer some comfort to you for those difficult days ahead, however I'm sure Liza will be more than willing to do a few favours for me after a single night with you."

Fowler clenched his fists.

"Now, Fowler." Francis added, as Fowler left the room.

“You’ll both regret this,” was his parting shot.

"One less to worry about." Christopher commented.

"I hope you're satisfied with yourself." Francis hissed.

"What?" said Christopher, taken aback. "He stole our silver..."

"Perhaps, but there are ways of dealing with such things. And what's this about you chasing after the Glover girl?"

"I could hardly chase her in this thing, could I?" Christopher said bitterly.

"I should attend to the guests." Francis made to leave the room.

"Yes, keep your priorities in order," Christopher muttered.

"And behave yourself tonight. There are some very important people in attendance."

"Mr Turner being one of them, I suppose?" Christopher queried.

"Mr Macey. Lord Wylde and Lord White, with his daughters. There's also a rather handsome young chap I'm determined to introduce to Zoya."

"Good luck with that." Christopher snorted. "Have you seen what she's wearing?"

"Another smart ensemble, no doubt." Francis replied, "She knows the importance of tonight."

"Well, good luck, Dad." Christopher repeated snidely.

"Don't be defeatist, Christopher." Francis entered into the adjoining room with confidence.

Christopher wheeled himself to his chairlift, scowling. Getting rid of Fowler was one thing, earning his father's approval was another. He still had to get ready for the party, and changing clothes was difficult at the best of times. He could have got one of the valets to assist him in dressing, but he would not allow it.

He headed for his dressing room, still dwelling on the stolen silver and his father's harsh words.


	13. As Ye Sow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which events come to a head...

"Lord Christopher? You have a visitor."

Christopher turned his chair around as a familiar woman entered his dressing room. Hammond, who had let the woman in, quickly departed. Miss Charity Dingle, the village harlot, stood before him.  
  
"What are you doing here?" hissed Christopher.  
  
"Heard you were having a party."  
  
"Yes, a respectable one." Christopher wheeled his chair so he was directly facing his mistress. "If my father finds you here..."  
  
"Oh, don't be so scared of your own father, Chris," Charity taunted. She looked every inch the scarlett woman in a long red dress.  
  
"I call on you, not the other way around." Christopher calmed himself. "Why are you really here?"  
  
"My son, Noah. Your son, if you would only acknowledge him."  
  
"What of him?"  
  
"Are you aware he and Joseph have been fraternising?"  
  
Christopher frowned. "Joseph would have told me if he'd had anything to do with his..." He couldn't bring himself to say 'brother'.  
  
"Noah wants to know why his brother lives in wealth while we are forced to live in poverty."  
  
"Poverty, you say?" Christopher looked at Charity's dress. He reached out to place his hands on her waist.  
  
"I'm not here for that," she said, pulling back.  
  
"Come, don't I pay you enough for your services? Surely you can afford to raise Noah with your earnings. You can obviously afford the finest clothing... not that you need it."  
  
"I'm entitled to more than what you pay me," she snarled. "My son should be welcomed into this family." She glanced toward the open window.  
  
"Is Noah here too?" Christopher asked with a sudden realisation.  
  
"He's outside, talking to Hammond."  
  
"You both need to leave." Christopher began wheeling towards the door.

"Why would that be, Christopher?" Kim peered in, having overheard the conversation from along the corridor. "Oh, Charity?"

She moved into the room, a spectacle in her midnight blue silk dress with the silver trim. "I thought we cleared all the rats out of the kitchen?”

Downstairs, the party was beginning to commence. Several distinguished guests had been welcomed into the lounge, where the servants were pouring drinks. Despite the chatter, the raised voice of Charity Dingle could still be heard coming from upstairs.

"You're not throwing me out." Charity's voice rose. "You're no better than me, none of you!"

"Oh, really?" said Kim with a smirk.

"Darling!" Francis gushed as Kinsett led Jean into the lounge, "good to see you, little champion." She looked up at him, as he realised whom he had been talking in front of. "Oh, sorry, Lawrence, may I present, my youngest daughter, Lady Jean Tate."

"A pleasure, my dear. May I introduce, my daughters, Lady Christine and Lady Rebecca." He gestured to each of them as Zoya entered. His smile dropped. "Good God..."

Francis’s head followed Lawrence's gaze.

"Zoya!"

Zoya selected a cocktail casually from one of the footmen and appeared to glide across the floor in her black silk dress, her long hair cropped into a chic bob.

"Good evening Father."

"Excuse me." Francis left the White family where they stood and approached Zoya.

"What are you wearing?" he said in an undertone. "What have you done with your hair?" He could hear a commotion coming from upstairs. "What the devil is going on up there?"

"Christopher had a visitor," said Zoya, running a hand through her newly short hair.

"We'll discuss this later." Francis gave his daughter a disappointed look and went to investigate.

"Charity, I think you've made your point." Christopher's eyes rolled.

"I ain't even started!" Charity retorted, eyes ablaze, "yer can't keep denying him! He's your flesh and blood!"

"He could be anyone's." Christopher replied coldly, "and you have no proof."

"You want proof, do yer?" Charity pulled out a rugged piece of paper.

"Read that." She instructed.

"Oh, bad show, Christopher." Kim crowed.

"What the devil is going on up here?" Francis stormed into the room. "Christopher?" He stared at Kim and then at Charity.

"You were dismissed from this house. I suggest you take your custom elsewhere. My son would never consort with the likes of you."

Kim smirked.

"Not only does your precious son 'consort' with me," Charity sneered. "But so has your precious daughter in the past."

"How dare you!"

"How dare you deny your own grandson?"

"Joseph is my only grandson."

"That's where you're wrong, Lord Tate." Charity waved the piece of paper at him. "I've got proof. And I'm not leaving here until I get it in writing that he's entitled to part of this estate."

"Thank you for bringing this to the party, Christopher," said Kim dryly.

"Father..." Christopher started to speak, "you can't honestly believe this? The word of a harlot? She's deranged, obsessive. The child could be anyone's!"

"Enough!" Francis’s face flushed painfully, his muscles tight with tension, "I trusted you. I thought you had learned your lesson. So I will ask you once and I expect the truth.”

"Francis, you must sit down." Kim eased him into a seat, "really, must we do this now?"

Francis’s hand trembled as he took the piece of paper from Charity.

"The truth, Christopher."

"What do you want from me, Father?" Christopher demanded. "You had your fair share of women in your youth. No doubt you fathered a few unwanteds of your own..."

"I've always protected you and your sister. I even welcomed Joseph into this household, after his mother died. That, and raising James and Jean..."

"Watching the hired hands raise them, you mean," Chris sneered. "Just as you did with Zoya and I. And where's your condemnation of Zoya for getting pregnant out of wedlock? That you sweep under the carpet, pretend that Jeanie is your own—"

"Quiet!" Francis glanced at Charity.

"She knows, Dad, the whole village knows. You want me to be honest with you? You betrayed my mother with that harlot," he gestured at Kim, "and yet you begrudge me having my fun with Charity?"

"Don't you dare compare me to her!" said Kim, outraged.

"Yeah, and don't compare me to her," Charity muttered.

"You disgrace me." Francis glared at Christopher. "If you acknowledge Noah as your offspring, or continue to consort with..." He took a deep breath, seething. "I won't protect you any more. You'll be cut off."

"There'll be no qualm with that, Father, I assure you." Christopher tugged on the bell. "Summon the cavalry."

"You can't do this! Noah is your son and I'm gonna make damn sure the whole world knows it!" Charity threatened.

Christopher smirked.

"Do what you will, you'll never see a penny. Apart from your services... rendered, of course. Although, to be honest, I can think of better ventures."

"You... you..." Charity stumbled, pointing at him, "ooh I could just slap your smug face, I could!"

"Is there a problem?" Foster arrived, speaking in his low, yet modulated manner.

"Foster, please escort this woman off the premises," said Francis.

"Certainly." Foster took Charity by the arm and marched her down the stairs, Charity protesting all the way. Her outraged cries faded as Foster took her outside to where her son was standing with Hammond.

"Well." Francis got to his feet. "Let us go and join the party."

"Him too?" Lady Tate glared at her stepson.

"We'll hear no more of this." Francis held out his arm for his wife's. "Christopher, we shall see you downstairs."

Christopher looked resentful as Lord and Lady Tate departed and headed downstairs to greet their guests.

"Where is Papa?" Jean looked about the room which was filled with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. The gramophone had been wound and was scratching out a popular melody.

"Where is he?" She slipped through the gaps of couples to the doors leading onto the terrace.

"Jeanie?" Zoya noticed her amid the crowd, "do excuse me, Lord Wylde." She joined her daughter, "Jeanie? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Papa." She hesitated, "you look like me."

"Yes, yes I do, but that's nothing unusual. Siblings generally look alike." Zoya gabbled.

"But I don't look like Crispy?"

"No." Zoya stifled a laugh, "and you can count that as a good thing." She rested her hand on Jean's shoulder, avoiding the girl's eyes as she continued to look up at her.

"Presenting His Lordship, The Earl of Miffield and Her Ladyship, The Countess of Miffield." Foster announced.

They began to greet their guests with enthusiasm.

"Papa!" Jean gushed, but Zoya stopped her from running.

"What are you doing?" The girl demanded, sensing something was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Jeanie." She released her and watched Jean flee to Lady Tate.

"Lord White." Kim greeted him graciously.

"Lady Tate."

"Mama?" Jean clutched her arm.

"One moment, please, my Lord." Kim escorted Jean away, her demeanour falsely kind, but Jean could see the darkness behind her eyes.

"Kinsett, could I have a word?" Foster muttered over Nicola's shoulder.

"Lady Rebecca! Lady Christine." Joseph had entered the room, looking dapper in his finest suit. He greeted both sisters with a peck on the cheek. "You both look ravishing. I say, Auntie!" He had just caught sight of Zoya's attire. "You look... extraordinary."

"Thank you." Zoya sipped at her drink, refusing to be drawn into her nephew's games. "Where is James?"

"Still getting ready, I think." Joseph accepted a drink from Miss Windsor, who whispered something to him as he leaned in. Foster and Nicola walked past, heading for a discreet corner.

"What is it?" Kinsett asked. "Something wrong in the kitchen?"

"Not in the kitchen, no." Foster admitted, taking her by the arm and leading her out into the deserted corridor.

"It has been brought to my attention that there are certain rumours circulating the house regarding the conduct between myself and Lady Tate." He eyed her suspiciously, tilting his head, "have you knowledge of this, Mrs Kinsett?"

"Well, you know how gossip flies about the place," Nicola cast off the remark.

"All investigation appears to point to you as the perpetrator of this falsehood. I must ask you, Mrs Kinsett?"

"I am not a perpetrator of falsehoods, sir." Nicola drew herself up, affronted. "If anybody is inclined to gossip, it's..." She hesitated.

"Yes?" Foster seized on her pause.

Nicola sighed. "The newest maid. Miss Windsor." There was some satisfaction in this, Miss Windsor had been openly flirtatious with Nicola’s husband. "She likes listening at doors, and such..."

"I see." Foster looked around for Miss Windsor and saw her leaving the room with Lord Joseph. "Excuse me." Following the pair, he went out into the hall and saw Joseph leading Kelly by the hand into the large cupboard where the guests' coats were being kept. The door closed behind them.

"Foster?" With a sinking heart Graham turned to see Lord Christopher looking suspiciously at him from his chair.

"My Lord. Can I fetch you a drink?"

"I'm looking for my son." Christopher glared at him as if Joseph's absence was his fault.

Foster refrained from asking which son. "He's here at the party, somewhere..." At that moment there was a thud from inside the cupboard and the unmistakable giggle of Miss Windsor.

James was quite anxious of parties at the best of times. He had not his nephew's bravado, nor courage when it came to business and thus considered himself to be a most unsuitable candidate for the empire he knew his father yearned to build.

"How do I look?" He queried to Pete Barton, his valet, who had far more confidence than he did.

"Very smart, sir." Pete advised, adjusting his collar and cuffs.

"I don't do well at these things, you know, Barton." James sighed, "but Father is counting on me."

"They're not monsters, you know." Pete smirked.

"No, I know. But I'm no good at this." He confessed, observing his reflection with a grimace.

"You look fine, sir. Better than Master Joseph anyhow."

James responded with a small grin.

"They'll be lookin' for you soon." Pete warned and James left the room, looking equal in handsomeness to his young nephew as he descended the stairs.

Miss Windsor was taken aback at the sound of the stairs and was temporarily distracted from her dalliance with Joseph.

"I say..." groaned Joseph, "what now?"

"That's Foster!" Hissed Kelly, pulling up the top of her dress to cover her modesty.

Christopher sniffed.

"Open the cupboard, Foster."

Reluctantly, not wanting young Joseph to be in too much trouble, Foster pulled the door open to reveal Miss Windsor hastily rearranging her dress and Joseph coolly buttoning his shirt.

"Out," said Foster calmly to Miss Windsor, who stepped out of the cupboard, followed by Joseph.

"What the devil were you doing?" Christopher hissed at Joseph.

Joseph laughed. "Well if you don't know that father..."

"How dare you embarrass me?" Christopher seethed. "Groping in a cupboard, with some common tart—"

"Oi!" Miss Windsor protested.

"I thought you'd understand a dalliance with a housemaid. Isn't that how I was conceived?"

"You ungrateful little swine." Christopher glared at his son while Foster exchanged an awkward, wordless glance with James, who was at the bottom of the stairs. "I should have cast you out onto the street, with my other bastard..."

"What is it now?" Lord Francis had joined them.

"It appears, dear Grandfather, that I am no longer welcome in this house." Joseph declared, "and despite the fact that my own mother was a maid, I myself am limited in my approved list of suitable interests."

"Christopher?" Queried Lord Francis.

"I need a drink." Christopher wheeled back viciously to the drinks cabinet.

"What has this girl to do with you, Joseph?" His grandfather demanded, taking some time to digest the circumstances, "you should be learning from your father, boy, not copying his actions!" He grasped James' shoulder, "James, go into the lounge and see your mother, please."

"Yes, Father."

James entered the lounge and Foster promptly shut the door.

"As for you," he directed at Kelly, "collect what you are owed and leave my house. Foster, ensure that she is escorted from the grounds without notice."

"As you wish, My Lord."

"Good." Francis huffed, "I am disgusted at you both." He advised his son and grandson with vehemence, "your conduct has no place in this house, in respectable society."

"Not now, Dad, I've heard it all before." Groaned Christopher, gulping back the whisky as Foster watched on with discomfort.

"Father? The guests are asking for you?" Zoya advised, emerging from the drawing room.

"And as for you." Francis rounded in his daughter. "Go and put something respectable on at once."

"Respectable?" Zoya looked around, at her brother drinking, at Joseph, whose shirt was still partly open, and at Miss Windsor who was being dragged to the door by Foster.

"You can't sack me!" she wailed.

"Is there a problem?" asked Hammond's voice; the groundskeeper had re-entered the house having finished his duties for the day.

"Yes, there is," said Lord Francis. "Why did you let that... Dingle woman enter this house earlier?"

"Oh, leave Hammond alone," said Chris, still drinking. "He probably felt sorry for her. We're not all heartless."

"She had her son with her," said Hammond apologetically. "She promised she wouldn't make a scene, if I just let her see Lord Christopher..."

"I'm sure Foster would have taken care of the situation." Francis continued to glare at Hammond.

"Foster takes care of a lot of things," sniggered Joseph.

Foster sharpened his eyes on Joseph, as though in warning to him to refrain from saying anything more.

"What do you mean by that?" Francis demanded.

"Well, let’s just say, he's rather generous with his loyalty." Christopher added, "especially where our dear stepmother is concerned."

"Christopher, no." Warned Zoya, shaking her head.

"What have you to say to me?" Francis seethed.

"Father, do calm down." Zoya attempted to pacify him, placing her hand on his arm.

"I will not." Francis shrugged Zoya's arm off him. "And you can forget ever having custody of Jean, in that state!"

Zoya's face crumpled. "Now see what you've done!" she said to Chris and Joseph.

"Well?" Francis looked at his family members and then at Foster, who had released his hold on Miss Windsor. She was looking between them, fascinated.

"Mere gossip, my Lord," said Foster. Christopher laughed and put his glass down on the drinks cabinet.

"Gossip about you and my wife?" said Francis softly. Before anyone could stop him he had crossed the hall and opened the door to the party. He walked straight up to Lady Tate, who was standing talking to Lord White, and grabbed her by the throat.

"Father!" James attempted to pull him off his mother.

"Papa, no!" cried Jean from behind James.

"Is it true?" He spat viciously.  
  
"Good gracious!" Gasped Lady Christine as she and Rebecca looked on helplessly.

"Father, what on earth?" Lady Rebecca whispered.  
  
"Francis..." gasped Kim.  
  
"You stand there, a model wife, the faithful, loving wife. Or so it would seem..." Francis locked his jaw, "yet it is all deception."  
  
"Francis... I haven't the faintest idea..." Kim pleaded.  
  
"No? Then tell me? What liaison have you made with Foster?"  
  
"None!" Kim protested.  
  
"I am the laughing stock of the house and soon the county!"  
  
"No, Francis."  
  
"Yes, Kim, for though you would claim to love me and our daughter, your affections have been entwined with another! And not just any, but the butler, of all things!"  
  
Kim cast a cursory glance at Foster, whose face was dark.  
  
"A servant? You believe I would lower myself to that?"  
  
"I do. So let’s hear it, wife!"  
  
He released his hold, allowing her to regain her breath and massage her neck.  
  
"Not here, please, Father." Zoya hissed, "you're upsetting Jeanie."

"Mustn't upset the little princess," murmured Joseph.

"Quiet!" Zoya hissed at him.

James pushed himself between Francis and Kim. "Enough, Father. Leave my mother alone."

"Now isn't the time to grow a spine, son," Francis snarled.

Christopher chuckled at his choice of words. "Two spineless sons, eh Dad?"

"Perhaps we should leave—“ said Lord Lawrence awkwardly.

"And I thought this party was going to be dull," Lady Christine whispered to her sister.

"Francis," Lady Tate appealed. "Who has been telling you these lies?"

"Papa, let Mama go!" Jeanie begged desperately.

"It makes no difference who told me! You have made me a fool!" Francis snapped, "I wish I had done as they directed two years ago, cast you onto the street after your... indiscretions with Lord Alex. Yet you won me back and like a fool, I believed you." He stepped back, furious.

"Papa, please!" Jean tugged at his sleeve.

"Come, Jeanie." Zoya reached for the little girl's hand.

"You're not taking her anywhere." Francis rounded on his daughter. "After your behaviour tonight? What kind of mother could you be to her?"

"What?" Jeanie looked confused.

"Father," said James warningly.

"Mama?" Jeanie glanced over her shoulder at Kim.

"Well done, Francis." Kim leaned down, "now you know, Jeanie. Instead of the daughter of a Lady and a decent father, you're a Chauffeur's daughter."

"Enough." Francis seethed.

"Your dear Papa has been lying to you, my dear." She seized the opportunity to return the favour by humiliating Francis.

Jeanie dropped Zoya's hand, looking confused. James put his arm around her.

"Miss Harrison, could you take my sister back to the nursery please?"

"And still he plays the martyr." Christopher muttered.

"You've always resented me for being born." James abruptly turned on Christopher. "Just because you failed to live up to our father's expectations..."

"You flatter yourself." Christopher glared at his brother. "You could be the offspring of one of her many lovers for all we know."

"And you were never one of them, not for lack of trying." Kim gingerly touched her neck where her husband had grabbed her.

"Stop it, all of you!" cried Zoya.

"Hark at Saint Zoya!" mocked Chris.

"I can't bear it any longer!" Zoya spluttered, her eyes wild, "Effie, please escort the guests to the music room."

Effie stepped forward with a bow. Francis, the initial shock having drained him of energy, took a moment to steady himself as the guests filed out, whispering among themselves.

"Please, now is not the place to be doing this." Zoya begged, her voice hollow.

"What would you have us do?" Demanded Christopher, "talk it through civilly? Well, that would be ambitious, considering the company." He downed his whisky.

"One more word, Christopher. Son or not, I have lost all patience with you." Francis warned, "you and your son. Both grasping for every penny. I'm disgusted." He turned away, "Foster, after you have completed your duties, you may take yourself out of this house. If you ever dare to seek out my wife again, I shall see you scavenging in the gutter within a week."

"I wouldn't threaten me, if I were you," said Foster coldly. "The fact is, Lady Tate and I are in love."

Joseph gave a snort of laughter.

"He's lying!" cried Kim. "He's just trying to stir up trouble — don't you see, he probably started the rumours—"

"It's true!" Miss Windsor had returned to the room. "I saw them together, too!"

"Weren't you told to leave?" said Christopher.

"How can I? I love Master Joseph." She linked her arm through the stunned young gentleman's, giving him an adoring smile.

"You love me?" Joseph's eyes glittered with mischief.

"I thought..." Miss Windsor trailed off, her breath catching in her throat.

"Why would Foster lie? He has no motive." Christopher pointed out, "apart from his obvious dislike of his employer. Slippery slope..."

"Come, Kim," said Foster. "Let us leave this place. The game's up."

"First sensible thing you've said, old chap," said Christopher.

"Nonsense, Foster, this is my house!" snapped Kim. "All of this belongs to me."

"Not quite." Zoya tightened her arms around her daughter.

"Oh, take the little brat for all I care," sneered Kim, although it gave her a pang to think that Jean wouldn't call her ‘Mama’ again.

"I don't think so." Francis looked around at his family. "So this is what's left to me... an unfaithful wife, children who betray me, and staff who can't be trusted. You're still unemployed, by the way," he told Miss Windsor.

"Joseph will look after me." Miss Windsor clutched at Joseph's arm.

"Sorry, Kelly." Joseph retrieved his arm. "Just a bit of sport, you know?"

"What do you mean? After everything I did for you?" Miss Windsor stood aghast, a pink hue touching her cheeks in indignation.

"Well, you've done your best, I'm just not one to be tied down, to... well... peasants."

Miss Windsor used the opportunity.

"You want to know what's really going on? I'll tell you. He's hoping you'll give him the business," she pointed at Christopher, "he was going to con you into signing away the money early," she gestured at Joseph, "and she..." she met Zoya's eyes, "she's been entertaining Harrison in her room. Late at night. Whilst Foster's been using the cupboards for his encounters with Lady Tate. She's no more worthy of that title than me!"

"Get out!" Francis seized Miss Windsor by the arms and manhandled her to the front door before shoving her out into the cold.

"You'll pay for this!" she screamed, battering on the door as it closed in her face.

Francis returned to the room where his family were standing, frozen. Foster had retreated to the music room.

"Tomorrow, after the guests have gone, I shall send for the family solicitor and instruct him to change my will," he began. "My elder son, my grandson and my dear wife shall receive nothing."

"Francis—" Kim was beginning to cry.

"And as for you." Francis turned to Zoya. "Is it true, about you and Harrison?"

Zoya set her chin.

"You have always known the circumstances of Jeanie's conception, Father. That does not mean I care any less for her." She paused, "and yes, it is true, Effie Harrison and I have a shared affection for one another."

"And you have been conducting, this... filth in my house?"

"Two people who love each other? Father, this is the modern age, there is no scandal to be had of love."

"Zoya, I expected more of you."

"I cannot be your darling little daughter anymore, Father. That doesn't mean I love you any less."

"I cannot and will not stand for this..." Francis swept his gaze across them all, seeming to have forgotten that Jeanie was still present.

She remained quiet, until a break in the disagreement allowed her to speak.

"Papa... if you are not my Papa, then you have lied. Lying is a terrible thing, Mrs Kinsett says." She began. Francis's jaw trembled as Kim looked on, wanting to comfort the girl, but determined to protect her own reputation.

"This is all of a folly, Francis."

"Dear little Jeanie. I only lied to protect you from the truth." Francis looked at Zoya. "Zoya, I covered up your affair with a chauffeur to protect your reputation, so you could still make a good marriage and you reward me with this behaviour? I will not stand for such unnatural doings in my house. You shall have to leave. Jean remains here, with me."

"You can't! She's mine!" Zoya cried.

"I won't hear any more on the subject. As far as I'm concerned, James and Jean are now my only family."

"You attack my mother, you attack me," said James.

"Mummy's boy," muttered Joseph.

"Just because you never had one..."

"Enough sniping!" Francis lost his temper completely. "If that's how you feel James, you can get out too."

"Is there anyone else you want to alienate, Dad?" said Christopher sarcastically. "I believe Hammond is still knocking about somewhere..."

"Jean." Zoya lowered herself down to her daughter's level. "Do you want to stay here with Papa, or do you want to come with me when I leave tomorrow? It's your choice, sweetheart."

Jean's scared eyes looked back at her, but she said clearly, "I want to come with you."

"Over my dead body," said Francis.

"I'm sure that can be arranged." Christopher muttered, "seeing as you've now given everyone a motive. Well done, Dad. Another successful family gathering."

He went to pour another drink, the effects becoming evident in his speech and attitude, but Zoya stopped him.

"Christopher, please."

However Christopher was in no mood to be pacified.

"So you intend to cut us off without a penny?" He paused briefly, then laughed coldly, "we know you won't do that, because you don't have a choice. Leave it to us, or the groundskeeper. What a predicament." The bottle clinked against the glass as he poured.

"You have done a bad thing. I forgive you because Kinsett says we should forgive and Miss Finch." Jean declared to Francis, her eyes glittering with tears, "I must be with my real Mama."

Francis nodded and Zoya escorted Jeanie out of the room, shutting the door.

"Francis." Kim started.

"No, not a word." He went out to the drinks cabinet in the hall and returned holding the whisky bottle, which he poured into the nearest available glass.  
  
"Grandfather, this was all for fun, surely you cannot think I had any intention of chaining myself to the like of Miss Windsor?" Joseph queried.  
  
"I do not know what to think." Francis drained the glass, "I did not build this family on betrayal and deceit!"  
  
"No, quite so, Francis." Kim agreed, "what did you build it on then? Control?"  
  
"I would say so." Added Christopher.  
  
"What is right for you, Father, is not necessarily right for us all." James stated.  
  
"A whole sentence. Things must be improving." Christopher sneered.  
  
"Stop, now." Francis told him. “Kim, go and pack your possessions. I want you out of here tomorrow.”

”Come, Mother.” James offered his arm which Kim reluctantly took, giving Francis a venomous look as she left the room.  
  
"Father,” Christopher began.

”No.” Francis shook his head. “I want you both out of my sight.”

Joseph silently took hold of the back of his father’s chair and steered him out, closing the door behind them.

Alone, Francis continued to pace the room, finishing the rest of his whisky. For the first time, he noticed that it tasted strange.

Suddenly the Lord dropped to the floor, the glass shattering as he landed. His eyes closed, his face drained of colour as he lay still, his only movement being the twitching of his hand.


End file.
